I 


BY  NEITH  BOYCE 


r~V 


< 


j  /' 


THE    BOND 


THE   BOND 


BY 

NEITH  BOYCE 

Author  of  "The  Eternal  Spring,"  "The  Forerunner," 
"The  Folly  of  Other}" 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 

1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
DUFFIELD   &  COMPANY 


THE  PREMIER  PRESS 
NEW   YORK 


PAKT    I 


2228943 


THE  BOND 


THE  painter  had  worked  for  half  an  hour 
almost  silently,  absorbed  in  his  task;  and 
his  sitter  had  watched  him  with  interest  which 
finally  demanded  a  more  active  expression.  She 
moved  abruptly  and  said  with  a  plaintive  air : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  I'm  tired.  I'd  like  to 
rest  a  little  now." 

"  Oh,  of  course — I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  afraid 
I  wasn't  thinking  of  the  time,"  he  said  quickly, 
but  still  hovering  before  his  canvas  he  splashed 
in  another  touch  or  two  of  violet  colour  and  then 
stood  back,  frowning,  and  blinking  his  eyes  as 
though  suddenly  roused.  "  Have  we  been  at  it 
very  long?  " 

"  Hours,  I  think,"  said  the  lady,  smiling  and 
stretching  her  arms  languidly.  "  It's  gone  well 
to-day,  hasn't  it?  " 

"Awfully  well.  But  I'm  afraid  I've  been  a 
brute,  keeping  you  at  it  so."  He  laid  down  his 
brushes  and  looked  at  his  watch.  "  By  Jove,  it's 
nearly  five!  Why  didn't  you  speak  before?" 

"  Oh,  I  hated  to  interrupt,  you  seemed  so 
interested.  And  I  was  interested,  too,  watching 
your  face.  But  I  should  like  some  tea  now. 
Shall  I  make  it?" 


10  THEBOND 

"  Oh,  will  you?   I'm  not  very  good  at  it " 

Still  he  seemed  but  half  awake  to  anything 
but  the  canvas,  which  he  was  studying  with 
knitted  brows.  The  lady  stepped  down,  moving 
her  shoulders  with  an  expression  of  fatigue,  and 
her  black  floating  skirts  touched  him  in  passing. 
She  paused  behind  him,  glanced  at  fhe  portrait, 
and  then  at  him.  Her  eyes  caressed  his  bent 
head,  joined  powerfully  to  the  shoulders,  rather 
rough-hewn  under  the  close-clipped  hair,  full  of 
vitality  and  force.  With  a  quick  breath  he  laid 
down  his  palette  and  turned  toward  her.  She 
was  looking  at  the  portrait. 

"  It  has  got  on,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes — all  that  modelling  of  the  face,  you 
see — it  came  like  a  flash  to-day.  But  now  let's 
have  tea,  and  forgive  me  for  tiring  you." 

Now  he  looked  at  her  as  though  he  saw  her. 
He  looked  tired,  too,  all  at  once;  light  had  gone 
out  of  his  face,  and  lines  of  nervous  fatigue 
showed  in  it.  Yet  it  was  an  essentially  vital 
face;  handsome,  clear  in  form,  with  a  warm 
mouth,  cool  eyes,  a  determined  chin. 

The  lady  smiled  at  him  and  went  to  the  tea- 
table,  which  stood  behind  a  painted  screen  and 
was  elaborately  furnished.  The  alcohol  lamp 
had  to  be  filled,  and  this  Basil  accomplished 
deftly,  with  an  ease  that  characterised  all  the 
movements  of  his  hands.  The  lamp  once  going, 
he  threw  himself  on  a  couch  beside  the  table,  lit 


THEBOND  11 

a  cigarette  for  the  lady,  and  his  own,  and  defi- 
nitely gave  up  his  work  for  the  day.  His  whole 
attitude  expressed  fatigue,  and  he  hid  his  face  for 
a  moment  on  his  outstretched  arm  and  yawned. 
Then  he  woke  to  the  social  demand.  The  lady 
was  looking  at  him  with  exigent  eyes. 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  be  so  good  to  you  an- 
other time,"  she  said.  "  It  tires  you  as  well  as 
me,  and  then  you  don't  talk ! "  And  she  laughed 
a  little.  "And  I  believe  I  like  your  talk  even 
better  than  your  picture,  though  I  don't  doubt 
that's  going  to  be  good.  But  I  don't  want  you  to 
be  entirely  drowned  in  it ! " 

"  That's  the  worst  of  work,"  said  Basil,  lean- 
ing forward  and  looking  smilingly  attentive.  "  It 
prevents  one  from  doing  more  interesting 
things." 

"  Not  more  interesting  to  you.  I  watched  your 
face  that  last  half  hour,  and  I  never  saw  you  so 
absorbed  in  anything.  You  change  quite  amaz- 
ingly— you  look  keener,  harder,  and  all  the 
friendliness  goes  out  of  you.  I  don't  think  I  like 
you  as  much  that  way.  But  I  believe  it's  the  real 
you,  and  the  other  thing  is  only  a  social  form. 
You  don't  really  like  people  as  much  as  you  pre- 
tend to!" 

"  I  like  some  people  as  much  as  I  pretend  to," 
said  Basil  amiably.  "And  I  like  people  really 
more  than  work,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  I  en- 
joy talking  to  you,  for  example,  much  more  than 


12  THEBOND 

painting  your  portrait — only,  you  see,  you 
wanted  the  portrait  painted." 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I  tell  you,  I  never  saw  you  so 
much  alive — the  mental  part  of  you  so  com- 
pletely awake — as  in  that  last  half  hour,  when 
you'd  forgotten  all  about  me!  Your  talk  with 
me  is  only  play,  by  comparison — it's  like  a 
cigarette  or  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  It's  play  in  the  sense  of  being  pleasure,  if 
you  like.  But  that's  what  talk  with  a  charming 
woman  ought  to  be,  if  I  may  state  my  humble 
opinion.  No  matter  how  clever  the  woman  may 
be,  or  how  much  what  she  talks  about  may  inter- 
est you,  I  maintain  that  the  mere  fact  that  you 
like  to  look  at  her,  that  you  feel  her  charm, 
lightens  the  most  intellectual  conversation  to  a 
point  where  it  may  be  called,  perhaps,  play.  And 
for  my  part,  I  rejoice  in  it.  A  purely  mental  ef- 
fort, a  problem  of  form  to  solve,  is  something 
else.  It  demands  a  narrower,  fiercer  concentra- 
tion. But  how  many  things  it  leaves  out !  " 

He  laughed  again,  and  his  look  expressed,  cer- 
tainly, a  definite  pleasure  and  some  playful- 
ness. 

Impatience  flashed  from  the  lady's  passionate 
eyes. 

"  I  don't  say  that  I  give  you  any  intellectual 
problems  to  solve,"  she  said  impetuously,  "  or 
that  I  make  many  calls  on  your  deep  mental  ca- 
pacity. Only  one  would  like  to  be  taken  as  seri- 


THEBOND  13 

ously,  now  and  then,  as  a  canvas  and  a  handful 
of  paints ! " 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Perry,"  said  Basil  quickly,  and  it 
seemed  the  right  thing  to  do  to  lay  his  hand  on 
hers.  But  at  that  moment  the  kettle,  like  an 
echo,  boiled  over  passionately,  and  the  lady 
hastily  made  tea. 

"  You  know,"  he  went  on,  "  how  much  I'm  in- 
terested in  you,  in  your  personality,  and  how 
much  I've  enjoyed  these  talks.  A  human  being 
interests  me  much  more  than  a  canvas  and  a 
handful  of  paints — but  in  so  many  different 
ways  that  the  expression,  at  one  time  and  an- 
other, is  different " 

"  Oh,  I  quite  understand,"  said  the  lady 
quickly,  as  she  gave  him  his  cup  of  tea.  "  And 
you  know  I'm  interested  in  your  work,"  she  as- 
sured him  emphatically.  "  One  reason  I  wanted 
to  stop  posing  to-day  is  that  you  promised  to 
show  me  some  drawings,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  if  you  like " 

He  started  to  put  down  his  cup,  but  she  said 
petulantly,  "  Oh,  finish  your  tea  first.  I'm  in 
no  hurry — I  mean,  to  go  away." 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I've  got  an  engage- 
ment a  little  later,"  said  Basil,  and  he  absently 
looked  at  his  watch  again.  "  Teresa's  coming  in. 
She's  due  now,  but  she's  always  late."  He 
smiled  at  that.  "  I  daresay  we'll  have  time  for 
tea  and  the  drawings,  too,  before  she  gets  round." 


14  THEBOND 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Perry,  looking  suddenly 
rather  bored.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
drank  her  tea  slowly. 

She  was  a  woman  of  about  thirty,  simply  but 
richly  dressed  all  in  black.  Her  figure  was  tall, 
slender,  nervous;  her  face  oval  and  heavier  in 
the  lower  part;  her  mouth  thin-lipped  and  im- 
perious; her  eyes  set  rather  close  together,  very 
dark,  full  of  intensity  and  will.  Her  thick  black 
hair  was  parted  on  her  forehead  under  her 
feathery  hat.  On  her  fingers  she  wore  a  number 
of  jewels.  She  was  handsome,  and  every  motion 
she  made  breathed  coquetry — not  light,  however, 
but  passionate  and  serious — not  intentional,  but 
an  involuntary  appeal. 

"  This  is  your  wife's  tea-table,  of  course,"  she 
said,  glancing  at  the  silver  and  porcelain.  "  You 
wouldn't  have  anything  so  pretty  for  yourself, 
would  you?" 

"  I  don't  believe  so,"  said  Basil  cheerfully. 
"  She  often  works  here,  you  see.  This  is  her 
corner.  She  models  little  things  very  well.  I'll 
show  you  something  she's  doing,  if  you  like." 

"  Yes,  thanks,  later.  But  the  drawings  first, 
if  you  please.  Another  cup  of  tea?  " 

"  No,  thanks — yes,  I  will,  if  you  don't  mind." 

He  put  down  his  cup,  lit  another  cigarette,  and 
went  to  get  the  drawings,  which  were  in  a  large 
portfolio,  tucked  away  in  a  corner  of  the  rather 
untidy  studio.  He  held  them  up  one  by  one  be- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  1.5 

fore  Mrs.  Perry,  who  lay  back  in  her  chair  and 
looked,  without  other  comment  than  a  desire  to 
look  at  each  drawing  longer  than  Basil  seemed 
to  expect. 

They  were  nearly  all  in  black  and  white ;  here 
and  there  a  few  had  touches  of  colour;  all  were 
done  with  apparent  economy  of  means,  with 
hard  simple  lines  which  made  a  curious  effect 
of  life,  brutal  or  pathetic.  The  subjects  helped 
this  effect.  They  were  studies  of  the  life  of  the 
city,  generally  in  its  rougher  aspects.  A  street- 
girl  and  a  man  sitting  at  a  table  in  a  bare  caf6 ; 
two  tramps  on  a  bench  in  the  park ;  a  chorus-girl, 
singing;  a  vaudeville  dancer;  a  girl  lying  on  a 
bed,  smoking  opium;  a  negro  drinking-place ;  a 
scene  from  a  Japanese  play,  a  man  seated  in  the 
middle  of  the  stage  committing  hara-kiri;  the 
audience  at  the  Chinese  theatre,  a  row  of  laugh- 
ing faces ;  the  Italian  puppet-show ;  an  East  Side 
cafe,  full  of  Slavic  types;  some  Eastern  women 
doing  the  danse  du  venire;  street  scenes  in  the 
Jewish  and  Syrian  quarters;  a  Bowery  bar- 
tender; some  immigrants  at  the  Barge  Office;  a 
row  of  men  at  a  gambling-table ;  a  drunken  group 
at  the  Haymarket. 

"  What  life  you  put  into  them ! "  said  Mrs. 
Perry  as  he  laid  the  last  one  down,  and  she 
shivered. 

"You  don't  like  that  kind  of  life?"  Basil 
asked,  laughing. 


,16  THE     BOND 

"  Why  do  you  take  those  particular  forms — 
sordid  forms?  " 

"  Because  they  interest  me." 

"  Yes,  but  why  do  they  interest  you?  It  seems 
to  me  that  art  ought  to  show  us  the  beautiful, 
the  ideal — not  sordid,  revolting  things."  She 
was  genuinely  moved.  Her  eyes  looked  near  to 
tears.  "  Life  is  too  terrible  when  you  take  it 
that  way — you  play  with  it ! " 

"  No,"  said  Basil.  "  I  try  only  to  show  it  as  it 
seems  to  me  in  some  of  its  significant  aspects.  I 
don't  claim  anything  large  in  the  way  of  art  for 
these  sketches — but  one  might  perhaps  detect 
some  sort  of  intellectual  intention  in  them. 
They're  comments  on  social  man — man  at  play, 
trying  to  amuse  himself.  Perhaps  you've  no- 
ticed that  nearly  all  of  them  are  that." 

"  Yes,  and  you  satirise  the  poor  creatures, 
you  make  them  more  tragic  than  they  are  in 
reality !  I  can't  see  any  beauty  in  that !  " 

"  You  really  haven't  seen  what  I've  tried  to 
do,"  said  Basil  positively.  "And  I  believe  it's 
your  fault  and  not  mine.  As  to  reality — what, 
dear  Mrs.  Perry,  can  you  know  about  the  reality 
of  these  people?  .  .  .  And  I  think  your  idea 
of  beauty  might  seem  rather  chromo-lithographic 
to  me — something  like  Greuze,  perhaps?  Or,  per- 
haps, I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  beauty.  I 
assure  you  that  I  see  enormous  interest  in  some 
of  those  things  I've  done — in  the  subjects  of  them, 


THE     BOND  IT 

I  mean.  If  they  were  to  me  ugly  and  sordid  I 
shouldn't  be  interested  in  them.  You'll  probably 
think  me  sentimental,  but  almost  any  aspect  of 
life  seems  to  me  beautiful  in  some  way." 

"  Sentimental,  no !  I  don't  see  any  sentiment 
in  those  things — they're  merciless!  What  you 
mean  by  beauty,  I  suppose,  is  that  you  see  some- 
thing interesting  to  do  technically.  It's  your 
drawing  you're  interested  in,  not  the  poor 
creatures  themselves." 

"  No,  no !  "  said  Basil,  laughing.  "  It's  really 
the  poor  creatures.  I'd  like  to  show  what  I  see, 
that's  all.  And  apropos  of  your  demand  for 
beauty,  I  remember  what  a  good  painter  said  to 
me  once,  in  criticising  one  of  my  attempts  in  the 
Paris  studio :  '  Ne  fais  pas  le  reve;  fats  les  choses 
qui  font  reverS  '• 

"  But  what  is  there  to  make  one  dream  in 
those  things  of  yours?  No,  I  don't  mean  that, 
they  do  make  one  dream,  but  nightmares !  What 
is  the  good  of  dwelling  on  that  side  of  life,  so 
long  as  one  can't  really  help  those  poor 
people " 

"  Oh,  you're  dreaming  of  soup-kitchens  and 
tracts,  perhaps?  That's  not  what  I  meant, 
either !  Look  at  this  fellow  again.  What  do  you 
see  in  him?  " 

He  held  up  the  sketch  of  the  bar-keeper. 

"  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Perry  slowly,  "  a  big,  mus- 
cular body,  a  sharp  eye,  a  brutal  face " 


18  THEBOND 

"That's  all?  Look  at  the  grip  of  that  hand 
on  the  counter  as  he  leans  across  it — look  at  the 
poise  of  his  head  and  the  square  glance.  That's 
a  successful  man.  He  makes  the  business  go, 
and  he  can  deal  with  the  toughest  crowd  that 
ever  tried  to  rush  the  place.  I  sketched  him  the 
other  day  while  he  told  me  some  of  his  exploits. 
Do  you  think  that  man  doesn't  enjoy  his  life? 
Do  you  feel  like  giving  him  a  soup  ticket?  .  .  . 

And  these  two  bums "  he  showed  the  two 

tramps  on  the  Park  bench,  talking  over  a  tat- 
tered newspaper.  "  That  one  with  the  spectacles 
is  well  known  on  the  Bowery.  They  call  him 
the  Professor.  He's  a  university  man,  and  if 
you  give  him  two  bad  whiskies  he'll  talk  better 
philosophy  and  better  English  than  you'd  be  apt 
to  hear  anywhere  else  in  town.  He  went  to 
pieces, 'as  society  would  say,  that  is,  he  lost  his 
job,  because  of  a  drug  habit.  Well,  now,  as  it 
happens,  he's  lost  the  drug  habit.  He's  ex- 
changed a  chronic  dyspepsia  and  a  worrying 
family  for  a  tough  body  and  a  peaceful  soul. 
Don't  ask  me  how  he  did  it — I  only  know  he  did. 
There's  a  lot  of  primitive  man  even  in  a  Profes- 
sor, and  coming  down  to  it  may  be  a  shock,  but 
it  isn't  always  a  misfortune.  Do  you  really 
think,  dear  Mrs..  Perry,  that  the  pretty  people 
who  ride  in  carriages  and  shine  in  opera-boxes 
are  dead  sure  to  get  more  out  of  life  than  my 
friends  here?  Do  you  think  they  exemplify  bet- 


THE     BOND  19 

ter  the  beautiful  and  the  ideal?  Do  you  think 
even  they'd  be  better  fun  to  draw,  not  to  say 
talk  to?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so,  and  that's  not  what  I 
meant.  I  daresay  tramps  are  more  interesting 
to  talk  to  and  even  to  draw  than  conventional 
people — at  least  for  you.  You're  so  curious 
about '  life ' !  How  young  you  seem  to  me !  How 
old  are  you,  anyway?" 

"  Thirty,"  said  Basil,  dropping  down  again 
on  the  couch  and  taking  his  second  cup  of  tea. 

"And  I'm  thirty-two.  I  was  married  at 
twenty.  I  feel  about  fifty.  ...  If  you'd 
had  my  experience  you  wouldn't  think  the  ugly 
tragic  things  of  life  beautiful,  or  make  pictures 
of  them." 

She  looked  tragic,  her  intense  eyes  fixed  on  his 
face.  Above  all,  she  looked  confidential.  It  was 
not  her  first  confidence.  She  perhaps  enjoyed 
this  situation  more  than  Basil,  but  he  was  inter- 
ested. The  stuff  of  human  life,  the  story,  the 
type,  appealed  to  him  keenly  under  whatever 
form  he  met  it,  and  he  was  apt  to  requite  warmly 
whatever  of  interest  people  gave  him  in  this  way. 
But  it  was  an  intellectual  and  not  an  emotional 
warmth ;  and,  though  it  might  burn  with  a  keen 
and  deceptive  flame  for  the  time,  not  to  be 
counted  upon  for  steadiness. 

Of  the  sort  of  interest  that  Mrs.  Perry  wanted 
to  awaken  in  him,  there  was  as  yet,  if  she  had 


20  THEBOND 

known  him  better,  no  sign.  He  liked  many  peo- 
ple, in  the  degree  in  which  they  interested  him; 
one  more  intimacy,  of  the  typical  sort  in  which 
he  contributed  intellectual  frankness  and  the 
other  person  emotional  frankness,  was  not  enor- 
mously important  to  him.  .With  the  lady  it  was 
otherwise. 


II 

TERESA  came  down  the  avenue,  where  a 
vague  breath  of  spring  floated  above  the 
muddy  pavement.  She  walked  with  her  quick, 
light  step  toward  the  little  park  at  the  end  of  the 
street,  seeing  with  pleasure  the  faint  touch  of 
green  showing  through  the  arch;  but  before 
reaching  it  she  turned  into  a  side  street,  smiling. 
She  held  her  light-grey  dress  carefully  up  from 
the  walk,  showing  pretty,  carefully-shod  feet.  A 
great  bunch  of  purple  violets  was  fastened  in  her 
short  coat.  Her  eyes  looked  out  from  the  shade 
of  a  broad  black  hat,  gaily,  blue  as  the  sky. 

She  went  toward  the  rushing  noisy  stream  of 
Sixth  Avenue;  midway  was  the  studio-building, 
her  destination.  In  front  of  the  building  a  car- 
riage was  standing;  a  discreet  brougham,  dark- 
blue  in  colour;  two  resplendent  bay  horses,  a 
coachman  in  light  livery.  A  footman  with  a  lap- 
robe  over  his  arm  walked  up  and  down  before 
the  door  of  the  studios.  Teresa  seemed  to  see  in 
the  expression  of  the  horses  and  the  servants 
that  they  had  been  waiting  a  long  time.  She 
knew  the  carriage,  and  at  sight  of  it  the  smile  of 
her  eyes  had  vanished  and  she  blushed  suddenly 
with  vexation.  She  went  into  the  building,  but 
in  the  hall  she  hesitated,  walked  up  and  down 
for  a  few  moments,  and  finally  stopped  before  a 

21 


22  THEBOND 

half-open  door,  from  which  issued  husky  strains 
of  a  bass  voice  chanting, 

"In  deinen  Augen  hab*  ich 
Einst  gelesen    .    .    ." 

Teresa  tapped  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  voice. 

She  entered,  but  the  sculptor  was  not  visible. 
In  the  half-twilight  of  the  studio  the  crowd  of 
his  vast  cold  images,  his  "  family,"  as  he  called 
them,  loomed  up  with  stony  chastity.  They  were 
all  of  heroic  size  or  more.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  a  colossal  horse,  a  palaeolithic  horse, 
arched  his  neck  and  lifted  a  fore-foot.  If  the 
foot  fell,  the  floor  would  certainly  sink.  But 
Teresa  had  seen  it  poised  now  for  two  years  in 
the  same  spot.  The  horse  perhaps  would  stand 
there  until  it  or  the  building  crumbled  to  pieces. 
Even  the  sculptor  did  not  expect  anyone  to 
buy  it. 

"  Behiit  dich  Gott,  es  war  zu  schon  gervesen, 
Behilt  dich  Gott,  es  hat  nicht  sollen  sein," 

warbled  Erhart  behind  a  screen  where  he  was 
making  coffee. 

Teresa  mimicked  the  dying  fall  with  which  he 
rendered  the  last  words ;  and  Erhart  burst  from 
behind  the  screen,  still  in  his  loose  linen  work- 
ing-apron, his  powerful  arms  bare  to  the  elbows, 
a  steaming  coffee-pot  in  one  hand. 


THEBOND  23 

"  You !  "  he  cried.  "  Come  in,  come  in,  and 
have  coffee  with  me!  Excuse  my  looks,  I  have 
just  stopped  work,  I'll  be  ready  in  five  min- 
utes. .  .  ." 

"  Don't  bother,  I  can't  stay.  I  have  to  fetch 
Basil,"  said  Teresa. 

"  But  he  has  a  sitter.  Mrs.  Perry  hasn't  gone 
yet." 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  asked  Teresa,  smiling. 
"  Do  you  watch  for  her?  " 

"  Not  I,  but  I  can't  help  knowing  when  she 
goes  by.  There's  a  swish,  swish  that  you  can't 
mistake,  and  a  blast  of  perfume — whew!  Araby 
the  blest  couldn't  touch  it." 

"  That's  the  reason  you  leave  your  door  open, 
I  suppose,"  suggested  Teresa,  looking  bored. 

Erhart  was  busy  setting  out  cups,  plates,  a 
plum-cake,  and  two  silver  mugs  containing  milk 
and  sugar  on  a  small  table.  He  put  the  coffee- 
pot on  the  table  and  disappeared  behind  the 
screen. 

"  Do  sit  down,"  he  begged  eagerly.  "  This  is 
awfully  nice.  When  Mrs.  P.  goes  we'll  get  Basil 
in.  You  know  it's  ages  since  you've  been  here. 
I  want  to  show  you  my  new  group." 

"  Well,"  said  Teresa  indifferently. 

She  sat  down  and  poured  out  the  coffee,  lis- 
tening in  spite  of  herself  for  the  rustle  of  per- 
fumed skirts.  Erhart's  pleasure  in  seeing  her 
evoked  no  response.  But  she  was  not  ungra- 


24  THEBOND 

cious.  She  smiled  at  him  as  he  came  to  sit  near 
her,  and  said  that  the  coffee  was  delicious. 

"  Yes,  if  I  could  sculp  as  well  as  I  can  make 
coffee  .  .  . !  "  said  Erhart,  "  Not  that  the 
new  group  is  so  bad — I'll  show  it  to  you  .  .  . 
But  how  are  you?  I  haven't  seen  you  for " 

"  For  three  days.  Why  haven't  you  been  up 
to  lunch?  "  enquired  Teresa  rather  maliciously. 

Erhart's  cold,  handsome  face  betrayed  a  slight 
embarrassment. 

"  Well,  I  imagine  you're  tired  of  me,"  he  said. 
"  I  suppose  I  have  been  coming  too  often  .  .  ." 

"  Nonsense.  You  needn't  fish  in  that  way.  I 
shan't  say  anything  agreeable  to  you.  I'm  in  a 
bad  temper.  Let's  see  your  famous  group." ' 

He  got  up  and  lifted  the  damp  cloth  from 
the  clay.  A  male  and  a  female  figure,  of  more 
than  life  size,  were  shown,  half  interlaced  in  the 
relaxation  of  sleep. 

"  It's  one  of  the  studies  for  my  ( Night,'  "  said 
the  sculptor. 

"  How  inhuman  they  are ! "  commented  Te- 
resa. "  Like  all  your  things.  I  think  it's  be- 
cause you  make  them  all  so  big  and  so  muscular. 
Look  at  that  woman's  biceps!  She  isn't  a 
woman ;  she's  a  monster." 

"  She's  splendid,"  said  the  sculptor  with  con- 
viction. "  She's  ideal.  Art  should  show  what 
people  ought  to  be;  it  should  be  remote  from 
what  they  are.  As  the  philosopher  says,  '  The 


THE     BOND 


L'O 


Real  is  an  immense  outrage  on  the  Ideal.'  When 
art  submits  to  reality  it's  pure  treason  .  .  ." 

He  stood  looking  at  his  clay  figures,  drinking 
his  coffee  slowly.  In  his  big  frame  and  his  clear- 
cut,  high-boned  face  with  its  contemplative,  large 
eyes  and  tossed  blonde  hair,  was  something  of 
the  cold  and  rather  empty  power  that  he  put  into 
his  work. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  let  me  do  that  bust 
of  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  Never.  I  don't  want  to  bore  myself  sitting 
to  you,  simply  to  serve  as  a  pretext  for  some- 
thing which  wouldn't  in  the  least  resemble  me! 
Anyone  else  will  do  quite  as  well.  And  you 
know  I  hate  posing." 

"  You  pose  constantly  for  Basil." 

"  That's  why  I  won't  for  anybody  else.  I  have 
too  much  of  it." 

"  I  could  do  a  very  good  thing  of  you,"  said 
Erhart,  looking  earnestly  at  her.  "  A  sort  of 
mermaiden  head,  with  smooth  hair,  with  lowered 
eyelids  and  a  streak  of  wildness  under  them — 
and  it  would  be  much  more  like  you  than  Basil's 
Madonna  effects." 

Teresa  turned  her  head  suddenly.  She  heard 
Basil's  voice.  He  was  coming  down  the  corridor, 
escorting  Mrs.  Perry.  Teresa  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  lady's  sweeping  black  skirts  as  they  passed 
the  door.  She  rose,  and  ignoring  Erhart's  at- 
tempt to  keep  her  a  little  longer,  bade  him  good- 


26  THEBOND 

bye  and  went  on  up  the  hall.  There  in  the  bare 
room  where  Basil  did  his  calm,  persevering,  ar- 
dent work,  was  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Perry,  the 
figure  indicated  by  blotches  of  violet  colour,  the 
face  quite  definite.  Even  in  Basil's  impression- 
istic sketch  it  might  be  guessed  that  she  was 
handsome.  The  painted  eyes  fascinated  Teresa, 
and  she  was  studying  them  when  Basil  came 
abruptly  in.  His  face  lighted  up  at  sight  of  her 
with  a  quick  pleasure  that  made  him  look  boyish, 
and  a  feeling  of  relief  gave  impetuous  energy  to 
his  greeting. 

"  Dearest — sweetheart !  Where  did  you  come 
from? "  he  cried  gaily,  taking  her  round  the 
waist.  "You're  late." 

Teresa  bent  slightly  away  from  him  and  said 
neutrally : 

"I've  been  waiting  in  Erhart's  place  for  half 
an  hour.  It's  you  who  are  late.  You  said  you'd 
be  ready  at  five." 

"  By  Jove,  I  didn't  notice  the  time !  The  light 
was  so  good,  and  the  whole  thing  went  so  well 
that  I  never  thought  of  stopping.  And,  besides, 
I  expected  you  to  come  in  any  minute.  Why 
didn't  you?  " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  interrupt  you,"  said  Teresa, 
coldly,  slipping  away  from  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  nonsense  .  .  .  What's  the  matter, 
dearest?  What  have  I  done — are  you  angry 
.with  me?" 


THE     BOND  27 

He  put  both  hands  on  her  shoulders,  with  a 
little  roughness,  and  bent  toward  her,  smiling 
quizzically,  tenderly. 

"My  new  dress!  I'm  sure  you're  all  paint," 
cried  Teresa,  and  writhed  away  from  him. 

Basil  looked  at  her,  puzzled  and  apprehensive, 
and  she  looked  at  the  picture,  maintaining  her 
offended  air.  Basil  put  his  hands  into  the  pock- 
ets of  his  brown  corduroy  coat,  took  out  his 
cigarette-case,  put  it  back  again,  and  then  stood 
quietly  gazing  at  her,  his  lips  compressed 
slightly,  his  eyes  keen,  searching,  somewhat 
troubled.  Teresa's  moods,  though  he  did  not 
take  them  very  seriously,  always  troubled  the 
surface  of  things  for  him.  He  was  used  to  coax- 
ing her  into  good  humour,  and  it  was  a  labour 
that  he  never  shrank  from,  for  until  it  was  ac- 
complished nothing  else  seemed  very  important, 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  it?  "  he  enquired  at 
last  of  Teresa's  chill  profile. 

"  It  is  a  little  theatrical,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  so  is  she.  That  is,  she  would  seem  so 
to  you,  I  daresay.  She's  very  emotional." 

"  Really?  She  looks  as  though  she  had  com- 
mitted a  mortal  but  pleasant  sin,  and  was  about 
to  go  to  confession,  which  she  would  enjoy  even 
more." 

"  That's  clever  of  you,"  said  Basil  with  a  quick 
admiring  smile.  "  She  has  the  capacity  for  sin, 
and  for  confession,  too.  She's  of  the  religious 


28  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

temperament,  like  most  women  who  are  very 
physical." 

"  Oh,"  said  Teresa,  with  a  contemptuous  droop 
of  her  eyelids.  "  You'll  be  saying  next  that  she's 
spiritual." 

"  I  do  say  it — she  is.  She's  thoroughly  mys- 
tical— something  you  never  can  comprehend, 
you  little  pagan !  " 

Again  Basil  put  his  arm  round  his  wife,  and 
again  she  repelled  him,  gently,  but  with  unmis- 
takable irritation. 

"  Why,  Teresa,  what  is  it? "  he  demanded. 
"What's  gone  wrong — don't  you  like  me  any 
more?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  You're  too  horrid,"  she  replied 
with  decision. 

"Well,  tell  me  how,"  said  Basil,  drawing  a 
breath  of  relief.  Usually  when  Teresa  was  of- 
fended she  retreated  into  a  blank  silence;  when 
he  could  get  her  to  express  her  grievance  he 
knew  it  was  already  half  forgiven. 

"  Tell  me — I  didn't  mean  to  be,"  he  said  with 
a  pleading  look. 

Teresa  was  the  picture  of  melancholy.  The 
corners  of  her  mouth  and  her  eyelids  expressed 
resignation  to  all  the  bitterness  of  life. 

"  I  think  you  might  have  remembered  you  had 
an  engagement  with  me — and  on  this  day,  too — 
I  daresay  you  forgot  even  what  day  it  is — our 
anniversary  dinner " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  29 

"  Dearest !  "  cried  Basil.  This  time  lie  seized 
her  firmly  and  kissed  her.  "  I  didn't  forget  it — 
I've  been  thinking  of  it  all  day !  .  .  ." 

"  No,  you  haven't.  You  forgot  we  were  to  go 
out  at  five  for  a  walk.  You  only  thought  about 
painting  that  horrid  woman,  while  she  told  you 
about  her  sins  and  said  her  prayers!  Hypo- 
crite! " 

"  Which  is  the  hypocrite — she  or  I?  " 

"  Both  of  you.  Go  and  change  your  coat,  I 
want  to  get  out.  It  will  be  dark  now;  we've 
missed  the*  twilight." 

Basil  was  not  yet  forgiven.  Teresa  was  still 
melancholy.  Even  the  consciousness  of  the  ex- 
cellent cut  of  her  new  dress,  the  perfume  of  her 
extravagant  bunch  of  violets,  the  feeling  of 
Basil's  uneasiness  and  fear  lest  their  evening 
should  be  spoilt,  the  knowledge  that  she  had 
only  to  smile  to  make  him  radiant  and  gay — 
all  these  mollifying  influences  she  resisted  for 
the  sake  of  discipline.  It  was  necessary  to  make 
Basil  a  little  miserable  before  making  him  happy. 
And  also  there  was  a  vague  but  real  shade  that 
overcast  her  pleasure  in  the  rolling  spectacle  of 
the  avenue  along  which  they  walked,  in  the  soft 
cooling  blue  of  the  sky  where  stars  were  appear- 
ing, and  the  mild  air  that  smelt  of  spring,  the 
perfume  of  flower-stands  at  busy  corners,  the 
haze  of  lights,  the  roar  from  streets  beyond  of 
the  great  cityful  homeward  bound — all  the  dis- 


30  THEBOND 

cordant  sights  and  sounds  that  closed  her  round, 
isolating  her  small,  personal,  absorbing  life  in 
the  midst  of  this  flood  of  life.  She  drank  in 
the  sad  gaiety  of  the  hour,  the  dividing-line  be- 
tween day  and  night,  between  the  day's  work 
and  the  quest  of  repose  or  pleasure.  Its  restless- 
ness spoke  deeply  to  her;  the  fatigue  or  the  ex- 
pectation of  the  faces  that  flashed  into  view  un- 
der the  lights,  the  glaring  allurements  of  some 
streets  to  the  west  and  to  the  east,  offering  food 
and  drink  and  amusement,  the  quick  roll  of  a 
closed  carriage  up  the  avenue,  a  girl  passing 
whose  sparkling  eyes  rested  intently  on 
Basil.  .  .  . 

Teresa  glanced  up  at  him  quickly.  Yes,  he 
had  seen  the  girl.  Teresa  surprised  the  rapid 
return  of  his  glance  to  herself.  She  hated  that 
other  look — the  interested,  appraising  look  that 
betrayed  a  whole  past  of  fleeting  encounters,  of 
fugitive  souvenirs.  She  saw  it  often,  for  often 
Basil  was  unconscious  of  it  himself,  and  denied 
it.  She  saw  the  involuntary  look  that  women 
gave  to  him.  And  each  such  perception  cast  in 
its  tiny  grain  to  trouble  her  mind,  conscious 
vaguely  of  a  problem  there  to  solve,  of  which  all 
the  conditions  were  not  as  yet  known  to  her. 


Ill 

nnHEY  walked  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  big 
-••  Park,  a  wall  of  dark-green  starred  with 
electric  lights;  Basil  talking  vigorously  about 
the  events  of  his  day — his  picture,  a  luncheon 
with  a  French  painter  visiting  the  city  and  two. 
Russian  anarchists,  an  interview  with  a  pub- 
lisher whom  he  had  invited  to  consider  making 
a  book  of  his  drawings.  With  Teresa's  hand 
clasped  on  his  arm  he  felt  forgiven  for  an  offense 
which  he  was  not  conscious  of  having  committed. 
They  took  the  lumbering  stage,  with  its  cadaver- 
ous horses  and  quaint  air  of  decay,  and  rode 
down  to  the  restaurant  where  Basil  had  ordered 
dinner.  They  were  the  only  passengers,  and 
Teresa  said,  as  the  primitive  vehicle  rolled 
pathetically  against  the  rapid  current  of  luxury 
setting  uptown : 

"  Dear  old  One-Hoss  Shay,  I  hope  it  doesn't 
fall  to  pieces  before  we  get  there!  How  nice  it 
is  to  be  poor,  Basil." 

"  What  does  that  mean?  I  know  it  doesn't 
mean  what  it  says,"  he  answered,  laughing  and 
holding  her  close  against  his  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  it  does.  People  don't  bother  about  us, 
and  we  needn't  bother  about  them.  I  like  to 

31 


32  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

feel  lost  in  this  tremendous  whirl.  It  makes 
somehow  my  troubles  seem  small  and  my — happi- 
ness great." 

"  Dearest — you're  happy  then?  "  Basil  said 
tenderly,  half-startled. 

"  I'm  perfectly  happy.  I  keep  wondering  what 
will  happen  to  spoil  it  all.  .  .  .  Someone 
will  take  you  away  from  me !  " 

He  laughed  out  at  that. 

"  If  you  cared  half  as  seriously  for  me  as  I  do 
for  you !  " 

But  suddenly  she  trembled  in  his  clasp,  and 
hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  tilting  her  big  hat 
over  one  ear. 

"Teresa!  You  strange  child!  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  to-day?  "  he  cried,  trying  to  see 
her  eyes. 

"  No — nothing — let  me  alone,"  she  said  im- 
periously, though  in  a  stifled  voice.  And  she 
clung  to  him  silent  for  some  moments.  Then 
she  sat  up,  put  her  hat  straight,  and  cried  joy- 
ously : 

"  We've  gone  too  far — stop  the  thing !" 

Basil  stopped  it,  and  Teresa  jumped  gaily 
down  the  steps. 

"  It  lasted  after  all !  "  she  cried.  "  I  always 
feel  things  are  going  to  fall  to  pieces — what  a 
relief  when  they  don't!  ...  I  thought  our 
dinner  was  going  to  be  spoiled,  but  now  it  isn't, 
and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  your  Mrs.  Perry." 


THEBOND  33 

"Mrs.  Perry!  What's  she  got  to  do  with  our 
dinner?  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know  with  pleasure, 
but " 

As  Basil  opened  the  outer  door  of  the  restau- 
rant for  her,  Teresa  smiled  defiantly  into  his 
perplexed  eyes. 

"  She  came  near  spoiling  our  evening,  I  tell 
you !  You  know  when  I'm  in  a  bad  mood  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  know!" 

He  shook  his  head  ruefully.  They  found  their 
little  table,  with  a  bouquet  of  red  and  white  car- 
nations upon  it,  and  the  chairs  tilted  up.  It 
stood  next  the  wall,  before  a  large  mirror,  which 
reflected  all  the  pale  colouring,  shaded  lights, 
and  palm-trees  of  the  room,  and  a  vista  of  other 
rooms  beyond.  The  place  had  a  foreign  air; 
nearly  all  the  patrons  spoke  or  tried  to  speak  in 
French  to  the  waiters,  and  when  the  orchestra 
began  to  play  Strauss  waltzes  an  air  of  gaiety 
diffused  itself  among  the  mixed  crowd.  By 
eight  o'clock  the  room  was  full.  Basil  had  or- 
dered cocktails  to  begin  their  dinner  and  some 
good  champagne.  He  liked  Teresa  to  drink  a 
little,  for  it  made  her  gayer  and  more  talkative, 
and  her  melancholy  moods  irritated  him.  To- 
night melancholy  hung  in  the  air  for  a  time. 
Teresa  looked  vaguely  about  the  room  and 
seemed  to  be  half-listening,  half-dreaming.  But 
suddenly  her  eyes  brightened,  she  leaned  for- 
ward, smiling  at  Basil,  and  began  to  talk. 


34  THEBOND 

"  This  is  nice  after  all,"  she  said.  "  I  feel  the 
spring  to-day,  and  it  always  excites  me  and  makes 
me  sad.  .  .  .  And  then  I've  been  thinking. 
.  .  .  It's  a  year  to-day  since  we  were  married 
— does  it  seem  so  long  to  you?  " 

"Yes,  longer.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  been 
born  married,"  Basil  said  with  his  quick  radiant 
smile. 

"  Oh,  /  don't !  It  seems  like  yesterday  that  we 
ran  away!  It's  like  a  dream,  the  time  has  gone 
so  fast.  .  .  .  And  7  was  not  born  married! 
You  are  the  same  as  you  were  before,  but  I  am 
different.  .  .  .  The  centre  of  gravity  has 
been  changed,  and  I  am  tottering !  " 

She  said  it  laughing,  but  with  a  meaning  that 
Basil  answered  by  a  look  of  passionate  tender- 
ness. Unconscious  of  the  people  about  them,  he 
put  his  hand  across  the  table  and  touched  hers. 
Teresa  glanced  into  the  mirror.  It  reflected  a  blur 
of  bright  colours,  for  most  of  the  women  were 
gaily  dressed;  a  number  of  ordinary  and  rather 
dissipated  faces  and  a  few  interesting  ones.  It 
reflected  Basil's  fine  and  vigorous  profile  and  his 
brown  colouring;  and  Teresa's  face  in  three-quar- 
ters view,  her  dark,  silky  hair,  rolled  in  a  thick 
coil  on  her  neck ;  her  narrow  eyes  that  varied  in 
colour  like  sea-water,  from  grey  to  green  or 
blue;  her  thin  but  sweetly  curved  and  sensitive 
lips.  The  mirror  showed  also  a  corner  of  the 
next  room  and  a  table  where  two  persons  were 


THEBOND  35 

dining.  Teresa  bent  forward  with  sudden 
interest. 

"  There's  Mary  Addams !  In  the  other  room 
— don't  turn,  she'll  see  we're  looking  at  her. 
Guess  who's  with  her — you'll  never  guess — it's 
Jack!" 

"  Jack  Addams !  Oh,  you're  mistaken,  it  can't 
be,  Teresa ! " 

Basil  was  quite  as  keenly  interested. 

"  But  it  is,  I  tell  you !  And  they  look  like  a 
pair  of  lovers.  I  wonder  if  they  can  be  going  to 
make  it  up." 

"  Oh,  they  can't  be.  That  would  be  too  much. 
After  the  things  that  came  out  in  the  trial !  Even 
Mary  wouldn't  dare !  "  protested  Basil.  "  Are 
you  sure,  Teresa?  " 

"  Perfectly — I  can  see  him  perfectly.  .  .  . 
And  there's  no  limit  to  the  imbecility  of  women," 
said  Teresa.  "  But  if  she  does  take  him 
back  .  .  ." 

"  She  won't,  on  the  children's  account.  She 
wouldn't  have  gone  into  court  with  that  case  if 
it  hadn't  been  impossible " 

"Well,  why  are  they  here  together  then,  and 
hid  away  in  a  corner  where  they  think  they 
won't  be  seen?  None  of  Mary's  crowd  ever  come 
here,  I  suppose.  There,  she's  seen  us."  Teresa 
quickly  looked  away.  "  Let  her  think  we  haven't 
seen  her." 

"  By  Jove !  it's  queer,"  said  Basil.  "  I  thought 


36  THEBOND 

they  had  made  a  clean  division  into  two  camps 
and  never  even  went  to  the  same  houses." 

"  It's  true.  At  least  the  few  people  that  stood 
by  Jack  Mary  has  cut,"  said  Teresa.  "  It's  the 
queerest  thing  I've  ever  known." 

To  keep  her  eyes  away  from  that  reflection  in 
the  mirror,  invisible  to  Basil,  she  looked  over 
the  room,  where  light  veils  of  smoke  were  begin- 
ning to  rise  in  the  warm  air.  The  orchestra 
was  playing  a  Hungarian  medley  of  wild  slides 
and  shuddering  thrills.  The  waiter  lifted  the 
bottle  of  champagne  from  its  ice-bath,  looked  at 
it  suggestively  and  filled  their  glasses. 

"  We'll  have  another,  shall  we?  "  said  Basil. 

"  No,  we  won't.  The  place  is  beginning  to 
look  hazy  now." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  you've  only  had  two  glasses." 

"And  a  cocktail.  It's  quite,  quite  enough. 
Even  for  an  anniversary.  I  wonder  what  the 
Jacks  are  celebrating!  Their  unwedding?" 

"  Never  mind  them,  let  them  celebrate  what- 
ever they  like.  They  interrupted  something  very 
interesting  that  you  were  saying." 

"  What  was  it,  child?  " 

"  Why,  that  you  are  different.  I  can't  see  it. 
You're  the  same  cool  little  person  that  you  were 
when  I  made  you  marry  me !  " 

"  No,  I'm  not.     I'm  in  love  with  you  now." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  and 
there  was  a  note  of  pain  in  his  laughter.  He 


THEBOND  37 

looked  at  her,  and  his  eyes  were  clouded  suddenly 
with  tears. 

"  You !   No — if  you  were !  " 

"  You  foolish  boy,  you  dear  creature,  can't 
you  see  it?  I'll  prove  it  to  you.  Basil,  I'm 
frightfully  jealous." 

"  Jealous !  Not  you.  How  could  you  be — what 
is  there  to  be  jealous  about?  " 

"  Everything !  Everybody !  Every  woman  that 
conies  to  your  studio,  or  that  you  look  at  in  the 
street.  Every  woman  you've  ever  known.  Your 
past — your  present — your  future." 

She  changed  colour.  Her  eyes,  deeply  blue 
now  under  straight,  dark  brows,  looked  fiercely 
into  Basil's.  But  he  took  her  emotion  lightly. 

"That's  absurd,  you're  only  trying  to  please 
me.  You  know  you're  the  only  woman  in  the 
world  for  me,  the  only  one  who  has  ever  existed 
for  me,  really." 

"  Except  some  hundreds  that  you  have  been 
or  are  interested  in !  Except  Mrs.  Perry,  except 
Alice,  except — a  lot  that  I  don't  know !  " 

"  Teresa,  you  little  charming  idiot,  you  know 
perfectly  well  you're  talking  through  your  hat! 
Women  don't  care  about  me.  Only  two  or  three 
in  my  whole  life  have — and  I  haven't  cared  for 
them.  They  like  me,  they  find  me  companion- 
able, that's  all.  Alice  has  a  purely  friendly  in- 
terest in  me,  and  I  in  her.  Mrs.  Perry  comes 
to  me  on  business.  I  never  see  her  socially " 


38  THEBOND 

"  On  business !  Now,  Basil,  do  you  pretend  to 
me  that  she  only  comes  to  have  you  paint  her 
portrait?  " 

"  You're  not  very  flattering  to  my  art,"  said 
Basil,  with  an  air  of  pique.  "  Now  comes  out 
what  you  really  think  about  me!  Du  sprichst 
ein  grosses  Wort  gelassen  aus." 

11  You  know  what  I  mean.  You're  an  artist, 
but  those  women  don't  know  it.  What  do  they 
care  about  a  portrait  that  won't  flatter  them  and 
that  isn't  signed  by  a  big  name?  Mrs.  Perry 
will  put  hers  in  the  garret,  when  she's  tired  of 
you." 

"  Let  her,  so  long  as  she  pays  me  for  it,"  said 
Basil  easily.  "  Do  you  think  I  make  love  to  her 
while  I'm  painting?  " 

"  No,  but  she  makes  love  to  you  and  you  en- 
courage her.  You  wouldn't  rebuff  any  woman. 
Even  if  you  didn't  like  her,  you'd  be  too  afraid 
of  looking  ridiculous!  Your  vanity,  Basil,  will 
be  my  death." 

Teresa's  liking  for  light  phrases  had  very  much 
lightened  the  discussion.  They  both  laughed. 
She  took  up  her  champagne-glass  and  he  touched 
it  with  his. 

"  To  the  most  charming  woman  in  the  world," 
he  said. 

"You  do  well  to  make  her  anonymous — but 
I'll  drink  it,  for  your  sake.  May  you  be  happy !" 

"  I  am,"  he  said  over  the  rim  of  his  glass. 


THEBOND  39 

A  moment  later  he  said :  "  Here  comes  Mary 
Addams — she's  coming  to  speak  to  us — no,  Jack's 
somewhere  out  of  sight." 

He  got  up  as  a  tall  woman  dressed  plainly  in 
dark-blue  cloth,  with  a  clever  and  worldly  face, 
came  to  their  table. 

"  Don't  let  me  disturb  you — just  a  word — just 
to  ask  you  not  to  say  you've  seen  us ! "  she  said, 
smiling  at  them  both. 

"  Of  course  not,"  both  answered  at  once  in 
some  slight  confusion. 

"You'll  think  it  awfully  queer — but  we  dine 
together  on  the  quiet  now  and  then.  Jack's  im- 
possible as  a  husband — but  he's  very  nice  at  din- 
ner once  a  fortnight !  " 

She  nodded  and  went  back,  with  her  quick 
supple  motion  that  drew  the  eyes  of  the  people 
she  passed ;  and  they  saw  her  leave  the  place, 
followed  by  the  big,  good-looking  Addams,  who 
carefully  avoided  looking  in  their  direction. 

"  People  are  queer,"  said  Basil,  as  he  dropped 
into  his  seat  again  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "Will 
you  dine  with  me  once  a  fortnight  after  you 
divorce  me?  " 

Teresa  did  not  answer.  She  glanced  dreamily 
about  the  room,  at  the  various  faces  which  at 
this  stage  of  dinner  all  looked  lightly  or  sod- 
denly  sensual.  There  were  many  fat,  dark,  for- 
eign people,  the  women  in  tight  light  satins  and 
huge  hats,  the  men  with  heavy  eyes  and  heads 


40  THEBOND 

sunk  between  their  shoulders.  "  What  a  collec- 
tion of  Steinlens ! "  said  Basil.  At  the  table 
next  to  them,  which  had  been  vacant  all  this 
time,  now  sat  down  a  vivacious  French  girl,  talk- 
ing gaily  to  four  young  men.  She  looked  curi- 
ously at  Basil  and  Teresa,  and  Teresa  instantly 
estimated  her  charms:  Brilliant  eyes  and  teeth, 
a  pliant  figure,  an  effective  toilette.  But  her 
hands  were  ugly,  her  mouth  shapeless,  and  her 
complexion  sallow.  Basil  glanced  at  her  indif- 
ferently. 

"  Odd  that  you  almost  never  see  a  pretty 
Frenchwoman,  even  in  Paris.  They  never  seemed 
to  me  attractive — too  nervous,  too  mental." 

"  Let  us  go  and  have  coffee  somewhere  else," 
said  Teresa  suddenly.  "  It's  too  noisy  here." 

"  You  haven't  enjoyed  it !  What's  the  matter, 
dearest?  You  used  to  like  this  place " 

"  Yes,  I  like  it  generally,  but  I'm  tired." 

She  was  petulant,  perhaps  from  fatigue.  But 
when  they  got  out  into  the  soft  spring  night,  and 
walked  the  few  squares  to  the  little  hotel  with 
the  terrace-garden  that  Teresa  had  suggested, 
and  particularly  when  they  were  sitting  alone 
on  the  terrace,  where  a  few  lights  glimmered 
on  the  bare  budding  twigs  of  trees  and  vines,  she 
became  gay.  They  drank  their  coffee  and 
liqueurs,  and  sat  on  till  Basil  felt  it  necessary  to 
have  a  whisky  and  soda — talking  eagerly  or 
softly,  hands  clasped  across  the  table,  more  lov- 


THE     BOND  41 

ers  now  than  they  had  been  when  they  married 
a  year  before.  There  were  no  reserves  in  their 
talk.  Both  were  of  the  world,  with  an  experi- 
mental interest  in  life.  Teresa's  interest  was 
at  times  the  paler,  perhaps  for  reasons  of  physi- 
cal vitality,  for  she  came  of  an  old  and  rather 
tired  stock ;  but  at  times  also  it  was  more  intense 
than  Basil's.  He  was  younger  in  race  and  in 
temperament,  full  of  vigour,  and  wThere  Teresa 
questioned  and  doubted  he  went  straight  on; 
but  he  took  life,  not  emotionally  as  Teresa  did, 
but  with  a  cool  vision  that  sought  beauty.  His 
mind  desired  the  closest  contact  writh  reality, 
and  he  desired  the  same  mental  experience  for 
Teresa.  He  wanted  her  to  know  the  wrorld  as 
nearly  as  possibly  as  he  knew  it,  to  see  it  as  he 
saw  it.  He  enjoyed  a  masculine  intimacy  of  talk 
with  her.  He  said  to  her  in  effect,  in  the  phrase 
of  Sainte-Beuve :  "  C'est  toujours  du  plus  pres 
possible  qu'il  faut  regarder  les  hommes  et  les 
choses"  And  he  unrolled  to  her  a  vivid  picture 
of  the  physical,  mental,  moral  life  of  a  man 
which  by  turns  amused,  saddened,  revolted,  but 
always  fascinated  her.  The  characters  of  many 
men,  of  many  women,  come  into  the  s.tory;  the 
men  intimately  known,  the  women  generally  su- 
perficially and  in  a  single  light  aspect.  Basil's 
keen  interest  in  human  beings,  joined  to  an  at- 
tractive personality,  had  produced  the  rich  har- 
vest of  reminiscences  wThich  he  offered  up  to  Ter- 


42  THEBOND 

esa.  But,  oddly,  in  the  whole  story  there  was 
no  emotional  entanglement.  It  was  the  fresh- 
ness and  force  of  a  first  real  passion  that  he 
had  brought  to  her.  To  him  she  had  been  and 
was  a  magical  thing;  a  creation  of  the  mystical 
sensuous  beauty  that  he  loved. 


IV 

TERESA  next  morning  lay  late  in  bed,  read- 
ing the  Arabian  Nights  in  sixteen  large  vol- 
umes of  delicious  French.  The  books  had  come 
two  days  before,  and  were  a  gift  in  honour  of  her 
anniversary,  from  her  sister's  husband,  Ernesto 
di  Pepoli.  Teresa  had  a  contempt  for  Ernesto, 
but  she  was  forced  to  admit  that  he  had  a  dis- 
tinct grace  in  the  small  things  of  life.  She  had 
not  seen  him  for  two  years,  and  who  else  would 
have  remembered  so  long  that  she  loved  the 
Arabian  Nights?  In  her  delight  at  getting  them 
she  had  written  Ernesto  a  really  affectionate  let- 
ter; in  spite  of  her  reflection  that  the  money  to 
pay  for  those  sixteen  volumes  (Ernesto  had 
had  them  bound  at  Siena)  would  have  to  come 
out  of  Nina's  shallow  pocket.  Nina  had  sent 
only  a  cablegram. 

The  door  of  Teresa's  room  was  open,  and 
from  the  tiny  hall  and  drawing-room  (the  whole 
flat  was  no  bigger  than  Erhart's  studio)  came 
the  scent  of  flowers.  The  people  who  knew  her 
best  had  remembered  yesterday — for  she  and 
Basil  were  still  in  the  state  of  obvious  content 
with  one  another  which  made  floral  recognition 
suitable.  Most  of  the  flowers,  indeed,  had  been 

43 


44  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

sent  in  by  Basil.  But  Gerald  Dallas  had  sent 
her  a  great  bunch  of  violets,  the  ones  she  had 
worn  at  dinner;  they  were  now  reviving  in  a 
vase  on  the  table  beside  her.  And  Major  Ran- 
some,  her  father-in-law,  had  sent  white  roses, 
which  fact  touched  and  amused  her.  Major 
Ransome  admired  Teresa,  and  though  he  was 
afraid  of  his  second  wife,  he  was  apt  to  be  reck- 
less with  the  pocket-money  she  allowed  him. 

Unfortunately,  with  the  roses,  Major  Ran- 
some had  sent  a  note  saying  that  he  would  come 
to  lunch  on  the  present  day;  and  Teresa  had  al- 
already  asked  Gerald  Dallas  to  lunch  and  go  to  a 
concert  with  her.  It  was  not  the  Major's  presence 
that  she  minded,  but  the  amount  of  thought  that 
must  be  spent  on  any  meal  of  which  he  was  to 
partake. 

She  and  Gerald  would  have  lunched  on 
chops,  baked  potatoes,  and  salad;  but  now 
there  must  be  a  clear  soup  and  a  cold  lobster  and 
a  cheese  souffle";  and  it  was  always  touch  and 
go  with  the  art  of  Mary,  the  temperamental  Irish 
cook.  If  she  was  in  a  bad  temper,  if  the  wrind 
stood  in  the  east,  or  she  had  stayed  out  too  late 
the  night  before,  the  result  would  be  disaster. 
Usually  she  liked  to  cook  for  Major  Ransome, 
since  he  appreciated  her  success. 

"Our  Mr.  Ransome  don't  care  what  he  eats," 
she  would  say  with  implied  reproach  to  Teresa. 
Teresa  took  no  interest  in  cookery,  and  to  her  a 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  45 

man  tremulously  concerned  about  his  food  was 
a  humorous  and  pitiable  spectacle. 

Now  as  she  lay  reading  she  heard  from  the 
kitchen  the  melancholy  "  keen  "  of  an  Irish  mel- 
ody rising  and  falling  monotonously.  It  was  a 
good  sign ;  Mary  always  crooned  this  dirge  when 
she  was  happy,  and  Teresa  endured  it  philo- 
sophically. But  it  made  her  feel  herself  rather 
lazy;  she,  too,  had  her  work  to  do.  Basil  had 
gone  away  early,  after  taking  his  coffee  with  her 
in  her  room.  Even  Basil  was  working.  The 
roar  of  the  city  without  penetrated  her  solitude 
— a  humming,  disquieting  bass  note  with  an  oc- 
casional sharp  crescendo.  It  was  necessary  to 
be  active;  it  was  impossible  to  read  the  Arabian 
Nights  after  ten  o'clock.  She  got  up,  took  her 
bath,  and  dressed  quickly ;  saw  that  the  drawing- 
room  was  dusted;  arranged  the  flowers,  dusted 
the  piano,  which  Mary  invariably  forgot,  put  a 
match  to  the  fire,  wrote  several  notes  of  thanks, 
posted  up  her  accounts ;  and  then,  having  a  clear 
hour  before  her  and  a  rush  of  energy  in  her  veins, 
she  put  on  her  hat  and  grey  furs,  for  the  morn- 
ing was  cool,  and  went  out.  The  air  was  clear 
and  sparkling;  she  drew  a  long  breath  as  the 
doors  of  the  flat-building  closed  behind  her  and 
shut  in  the  be-rugged  entrance-hall,  the  potted 
palms,  and  the  negro  boy-in-buttons.  The  tiny 
leaves  on  the  trees  shivered  in  the  wind,  and 
Teresa,  breathing  it  in,  felt  as  though  she  were 


46  THEBOND 

walking  on  the  downs  facing  the  sea.  She  was 
happy,  light-hearted.  Basil  did  not  worry  her. 
She  knew  he  had  an  appointment  with  Mrs. 
Perry,  who  intended  leaving  town  soon  and 
seemed  to  want  the  portrait  finished  in  a  hurry. 
iVery  well,  let  him  have  appointments !  She  knew 
he  was  flirting  with  Mrs.  Perry,  and  she  felt  now 
a  light  contempt  for  him.  She,  Teresa,  had  all 
his  heart,  she  had  his  happiness  in  her  hand,  she 
knew  her  own  power.  In  her  mood  of  to-day  she 
recognised  it  calmly  and  felt  independent  of  him. 
For  the  moment  she  was  free,  as  she  had  been  be- 
fore she  married,  and  for  some  time  afterwards. 
The  business  on  which  she  was  going,  too,  was  a 
reminder  of  her  bachelor  freedom. 

Her  rooms,  in  which  she  had  lived  very  hap- 
pily alone  for  a  year  before  her  marriage,  were 
high  up  in  an  old  building  on  the  edge  of  the 
roar  and  rush  of  the  great  middle-class  business 
thoroughfare.  The  endless  noise  of  trolleys  and 
elevated  road  had  not  disturbed  Teresa.  She  had 
liked  to  live  in  the  midst  of  this  flood  of  life,  as 
she  liked  the  view  from  her  windows  to  the  west 
— an  endless  spread  of  roofs,  chimney-pots, 
smoke  and  steam,  which  did  not  stain  the  clear 
air.  She  had  made  herself  a  little  niche  in  the 
huge  city;  and  the  feeling  of  its  vastness  closed 
her  round  comfortably.  She  was  as  much  of  it 
as  she  wished  to  be.  She  regarded  it — and  so 
she  did,  at  that  time,  life  in  general — as  a  spec- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  47 

tacle,  which  might  roll  turlmlently  about  one 
and  leave  one  amused  and  unmoved,  with  one's 
small  activities  and  one's  dreams. 

For  several  years,  in  fact  since  the  death  of  her 
surviving  parent,  Teresa  had  filled  out  a  micro- 
scopic income  by  work  which  was  more  pleasure 
than  anything  else.  She  had  a  slender  but  real 
artistic  gift,  developed  in  the  course  of  her  fam- 
ily's eccentric  wanderings  abroad.  She  modelled 
tiny  bronzes,  useful  or  purely  decorative,  little 
figures  of  animals,  naked  children,  or  fantastic 
beings  out  of  fairyland;  and  she  designed  jewels 
of  worked  silver  and  gold  and  semi-precious 
stones  whose  colour  was  their  chief  value.  These 
things  were  exhibited  from  time  to  time  and  sold 
— through  an  agent,  as  Teresa  disliked  money- 
dealings — for  prices  such  as  "art"  commands 
in  our  country ;  the  price  of  the  exotic,  the  mys- 
terious. 

Her  rooms  had  old-fashioned  size  and  square- 
ness. The  living-room  served  also  as  a  studio, 
and  was  ornamented  by  the  remains  of  the 
family  furniture,  picked  up  abroad  with  more 
taste  than  money.  Heavy  tables  and  chairs 
of  Italian  walnut,  cabinets  and  a  desk  elabor- 
ately inlaid,  long  curtains  of  faded  but  rich  red 
brocade,  and  some  pieces  of  embroidery  on  the 
grey  walls,  made  a  formal  but  agreeable  setting. 
The  dining-room  was  furnished  chiefly  with 
books — collected  by  Teresa's  father  in  each 


48  THEBOND 

country  they  had  lived  in,  and  usually  left  be- 
hind, in  large  boxes  marked  "  library,"  when  the 
family  took  its  unpremeditated  flight.  When 
Teresa's  mother,  a  widow,  had  decided  to  come 
home,  she  had  tried  to  reassemble  her  scattered 
household  goods.  The  "  library  "  seemed  to  stand 
the  stress  of  time  and  removals  better  than  the 
furniture,  much  of  which  fell  to  pieces  in  tran- 
sit; Teresa  had  about  three  thousand  volumes 
covering  her  walls,  with  space  left  only  for  a 
portrait  of  her  father,  painted  by  a  German 
friend  of  the  family  in  acknowledgment  of  an 
unrepayable  loan.  It  was  not  a  bad  portrait; 
it  vividly  presented  Konald  Grange  as  Teresa 
remembered  him — his  thin,  bearded  face,  his  soft, 
fiery  eyes,  his  whole  look  of  meditative  fragil- 
ity. He  was  a  South  Carolinian,  and  his  wife  an 
energetic  but  unpractical  New  Englander;  and 
they  had  quarrelled  so  much  retrospectively  over 
the  war  of  secession  and  the  ethics  of  slavery 
that  at  times  in  their  European  wanderings  the 
family  had  split;  Teresa  going  with  the  father, 
whom  she  adored,  and  the  elder  daughter,  Nina, 
with  the  mother.  Some  years  after  her  father's 
death  Nina  had  married  an  Italian  of  good  but 
impoverished  family.  She  had  been  married  for 
her  beauty  and  for  love,  having  no  money.  But 
soon  it  appeared  that  love  was  hardly  enough, 
and  that  money  was  pressingly  necessary. 


THEBOND  49 

Agonising  appeals  to  Mrs.  Grange  led  her  to 
relieve  as  much  as  possible  Nina's  situation, 
and  to  leave  her  by  will,  with  Teresa's  con- 
sent, two-thirds  of  the  small  property  on  which 
the  other  two  had  lived.  Nina  had  been  the 
mother's  favourite,  Teresa  the  father's;  it  was 
to  Teresa  that  he  left  his  books,  and  the  book- 
plate and  gold  seal  and  few  pieces  of  plate 
descended  from  English  ancestors;  and  the 
sword  of  her  grandfather,  the  slaveholder  and 
rebel  general,  whom  the  New  England  part  of 
the  family  repudiated.  Konald  Grange  had  lit- 
tle more  to  leave — except  a  memory  to  Teresa 
full  of  pathetic  charm. 

When  Teresa  married,  she  said  to  Basil  Ran- 
some: 

"  I  shall  keep  my  rooms,  you  know,  in 
case  we  don't  get  on."  And  he,  gaily  admitting 
the  provisory  nature  of  their  arrangement,  had 
yet  a  jealous  pang,  which  he  concealed  as  little 
as  he  concealed  anything  else  from  her.  For 
the  wary  Teresa  had  not  seemed  even  half-tamed 
when  he  did  succeed  in  marrying  her,  and  how 
much  she  was  won  was  known  only  to  herself. 
They  had  now  had  a  year  together,  and  had 
got  on  marvellously,  though  with  frequent  quar- 
rels. Teresa  had  not  even  once  desired  to  re- 
treat to  her  bachelor  independence.  In  her  flat 
lived  a  young  woman,  an  art  student  whom 


50  THEBOND 

Teresa  had  befriended,  and  who  looked  after  the 
place.  Teresa  came  almost  every  day  to  work 
in  the  studio.  Often  she  took  people  there  to 
tea.  It  was  always  a  place  to  retreat  to  when 
she  had  quarrelled  with  Basil.  Once  or  twice 
she  had  even  stayed  over  night  there  with  Miss 
Pease,  who  cooked  her  own  meals  on  a  chafing- 
dish;  and  curled  up  on  a  divan  Teresa  tasted 
the  luxury  of  freedom,  as  they  chatted  about  the 
old  days  of  the  studio  in  Paris,  where  she  had 
worked  hard  for  two  years. 

Teresa  liked  enormously  to  have  this  little 
pied-a-terre  apart  from  Basil.  He  had  his  work 
separately,  she  had  hers,  and  they  met  at  the 
flat  on  equal  terms.  She  clung  to  outward  signs 
of  independence  more  and  more,  since  of  late 
she  had  felt  sometimes  that  its  spirit  was  escap- 
ing her.  She  was  painfully  aware  now  that  she 
could  not  do  without  Basil,  and  that,  if  she  had 
not  let  herself  go,  it  was  of  no  use :  she  had  gone 
just  the  same.  In  her  calm  moods  she  looked 
back  on  her  fits  of  pointless  jealousy,  her  emo- 
tional crises,  as  simple  idiocy.  But  it  seemed 
to  her  more  and  more  probable  that  this  idiocy 
was  the  woman  in  her  waking  up.  Basil  had 
chosen  to  call  the  creature — blind,  primeval, 
essentially  a  slave — to  life,  and  he  must  take 
the  consequences! 

As   his   stormy    courtship    calmed,    what   he 


THE     BOND 


51 


wanted  was  the  peace  of  the  manage;  quiet, 
sweet,  though  not  monotonous  intimacy.  Teresa 
took  a  perverse  pleasure  in  making  scenes,  and 
disturbing  him:  Had  he  not  proceeded  on  the 
theory  that  she  was  cold  and  indifferent,  deficient 
in  instinct  and  emotion? 


TERESA  was  late  to  lunch;  she  found  the 
three  men  waiting  in  the  drawing-room 
when  she  came  in,  fresh  and  full  of  colour,  from 
her  rapid  walk.  Two  of  them  seemed  not  to 
mind  being  kept  waiting — but  then  Gerald  never 
minded  anything  she  did,  and  the  Major's  man- 
ners were  perfect ;  and  Gerald  was  playing  Bach, 
and  the  Major  loved  music. 

Basil,  however,  was  in  a  bad  humour,  as  she 
perceived  from  his  walking  restlessly  about  the 
room,  and  smoking  a  cigarette  with  quick  vicious 
tugs. 

"  It's  twenty  minutes  past  one,  Teresa ;  where 
on  earth  have  you  been?  "  he  demanded  irritably. 

"  Business,"  said  Teresa  blandly.  "  I'm  aw- 
fully sorry.  Come  on  out,  I  won't  even  stop  to 
take  off  my  hat.  I  suppose  lunch  is  ready?  " 

"  I  should  suppose  so.  For  a  wonder,  it  was 
ready  on  time,"  growled  Basil. 

Teresa  took  the  Major's  arm  and  led  him  out, 
wishing  that  Basil  had  some  of  his  parent's 
suavity.  The  Major  said  something  cheerful 
about  the  bright  spring  morning  and  the  roses 
in  her  cheeks,  and  put  an  extra  shade  of  gal- 
lantry into  his  manner  of  seating  her.  She  al- 

53 


THE     BOND  53 

ways  felt  that  he  was  sorry  for  her  when  Basil 
was  rough;  the  Major  never  could  have  been 
rude  to  any  woman,  not  even  to  a  plain  woman. 
Teresa  perceived  why  it  was  that  two  women  had 
fallen  in  love  with  and  married  the  Major,  to 
their  own  practical  disadvantage.  ITe  was 
purely  an  article  of  luxury.  He  was  a  very 
neat  old  man,  with  smooth-shaven,  rosy,  with- 
ered cheeks,  carefully-clipped  silver  hair  and 
moustache,  and  the  sweet  blue  eyes  of  a  child. 
His  small  figure  still  had  the  military  carriage, 
and  the  scar  of  an  old  wound  at  the  corner  of 
one  eye  brought  out  oddly  the  gentleness  of  his 
face.  He  was  very  well  dressed ;  his  second  wife 
liked  to  see  him  looking  smart;  but  he  almost 
never  had  pocket-money. 

In  this  respect  he  was  poorer  even  than  Ger- 
ald Dallas,  who  never  had  anything  but  pocket- 
money.  Gerald  always  gave  the  Major  a  drink, 
or  several,  when  they  met,  and  had  frequently 
lent  him  five  dollars  till  the  first  of  the  month ; 
but  Gerald's  coat,  buttoned  closely  round  his 
slim  figure,  was  shiny  at  the  seams  and  the 
pockets,  and  his  long  nose  was  red  from  the  wind. 
He  always  pawned  his  overcoat  on  the  first  warm 
day,  "  for  fear  of  moths,"  as  he  had  explained 
to  Teresa.  The  Major  loved  him  because  of  his 
conviviality  and  his  music,  Teresa  because  of 
his  Celtic  melancholy  and  his  sentiment  for  her- 
self. He  was  one  of  Basil's  bachelor  intimates, 


54  THEBOND 

and  the  hardest  drinker  of  them  all;  but  now 
he  had  become  more  Teresa's  friend  than  Basil's. 

By  the  time  the  grapefruit  had  gone  its  way, 
and  the  soup  had  proved  to  be  really  clear,  and 
the  whisky  decanter  had  been  twice  round  the 
table,  the  slight  constraint  in  which  the  meal 
began  had  vanished.  Basil,  as  his  hunger  was 
appeased,  regained  his  good  humour ;  but  Teresa 
avoided  looking  at  him,  and  her  smile,  as  she 
listened  to  the  talk  or  joined  in  it  now  and  then, 
was  by  no  means  gay.  Basil's  roughness  always 
took  her  by  surprise,  and  always  wounded  her, 
especially  when  it  came  close  on  the  heels  of  a 
passionate  expression  of  his  love.  She  then  felt 
not  only  pain,  but  humiliation,  and  a  sort  of 
anger  very  different  from  his — not  quick,  not 
forced  to  expression,  but  half-dormant  some- 
where in  darkness,  slow  to  disappear.  Basil 
called  it  "  the  sulks,"  and  much  preferred  his 
own  kind.  "  At  least,  I  get  it  out  and  over 
with,"  he  would  argue. 

Now  he  sought  Teresa's  eyes  across  the  table, 
which  was  gay  with  sunlight  and  yellow  daffo- 
dils, in  little  vases  of  Italian  pottery,  and  silver 
dishes  full  of  sweets,  and  Mexican  lace-work 
fine  as  cobwebs;  for,  even  if  meals  were  late, 
Teresa  always  had  a  pretty  table.  But  she  would 
not  look  at  him,  till  at  last  he  asked  her  a 
direct  question. 

"  Teresa,  will  you  pose  for  me  this  afternoon? 


THEBOND  55 

I  got  a  note  from  Mrs.  Perry  this  morning,  say- 
ing she's  off  motoring  for  a  fortnight,  so  I'm 
out  of  a  job  for  to-day." 

"  Can't,  I'm  going  to  a  concert  with  Gerald," 
she  said,  and  now  her  narrow  eyes,  half-closed, 
sent  a  knife-like  glint  at  him. 

"Well,  afterwards.  You  could  come  soon 
after  four  for  an  hour." 

"  No,  I  shall  be  too  tired." 

Basil  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause  the  talk  went  back  to  politics.  The 
Major  was  a  great  politician,  Gerald  was  a  news- 
paper man,  and  Basil  was  interested  in  anything 
that  anyone  else  could  talk  about.  But  politics 
tiered  Teresa,  and  though  she  seemed  to  listen 
she  was  really  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts. 

First  she  rejoiced  that  Mrs.  Perry  had  dis- 
appointed Basil.  "  That  will  show  him  how 
much  she  cares  about  him  and  his  picture,"  she 
reflected.  "  I  wonder  if  he  is  vexed  about  her, 
or  about  the  picture?  That  was  the  reason  of 
his  flying  out  at  me  when  I  came  in.  But  he 
shan't  be  rude  to  me  simply  because  other  women 
have  put  him  out  of  temper.  I  will — I  will " 

What  she  would  do  about  it  remained  vague, 
dying  away  in  undertones  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing; but  what  was  perfectly  definite  in  her  mind 
was  the  intention  that  Basil  should  pay  for  his 
unkindness. 

The  lunch,  she  was  glad  to  see,  was  good ;  only 


56  THEBOND 

the  spring  lamb  was  overdone,  because  of  the 
half -hour's  delay.  However,  the  Major  enjoyed 
his  food  with  his  usual  zest,  at  times  approach- 
ing ecstasy.  And  Teresa,  as  usual,  was  half- 
pleased  by  his  enjoyment,  and  half-amused  by  its 
triviality.  He  seemed  to  her  like  a  child  that 
had  been  given  a  piece  of  cake;  but  so  did  Ger- 
ald when  he  was  given  anything  to  drink;  so 
did  Basil  given  a  different  sort  of  pleasure.  They 
were  all  children,  she  thought — all  greedy,  all 
absurdly  anxious  to  enjoy  themselves.  But  of 
the  three  the  Major's  pleasure  seemed  to  her 
the  most  trivial.  How  could  a  man  have  a  pas- 
sion for  food?  How  could  a  woman  love  a  man 
who  loved  new  peas  and  lobster?  .  .  .  But 
perhaps  the  Major  had  been  less  devoted  to 
eating  in  the  days  when  Basil's  mother  fell  in 
love  with  him — the  splendid  red-haired  woman 
with  the  strong  chin  and  piercing  dark  eyes, 
whose  portrait,  in  black  velvet  and  Venetian 
lace,  hung  in  Basil's  study.  At  any  time,  though, 
the  Major  must  have  been  a  child  in  comparison 
with  her.  She  had  been  rich,  for  those  days,  and 
very  headstrong,  and  had  run  away  with  the 
Major  against  the  wish  of  her  relatives;  and, 
when  her  son  was  born,  she  had  made  a  will 
carefully  tying  up  her  property  for  his  benefit, 
and  leaving  the  Major  only  a  life  income.  A 
year  later  she  had  died  in  child-birth.  Basil 
was  like  her.  He  had  her  vigour,  her  keenness,  her 


THE     BOND  57 

good  sense  and  will.  From  his  father  he  took 
his  artistic  impulse.  .  .  .  And  that  father, 
a  few  years  after  his  wife's  death,  had  married 
a  little  half-German  woman,  whose  only  merits 
apparently  were  that  she  cooked  to  perfection 
and  made  his  physical  man  thoroughly  comfort- 
able. Comfortable!  He  could  marry  for  that, 
and  have  several  more  children — after  the  fine 
creature  who  had  condescended  to  love  him  had 
died  in  her  youth.  .  .  . 

Teresa  looked  at  the  Major's  scarred  cheek, 
and  watched  the  loving  care  with  which  he  ex- 
tracted the  meat  from  a  lobster-tenacle — and 
she  marvelled  at  the  ways  of  man. 

She  and  Gerald  left  the  table  when  the  des- 
sert came  on,  and  even  then  they  were  late  and 
had  to  wait  in  the  corridor  of  the  concert-hall 
till  the  first  number  was  finished.  Teresa  was 
out  of  humour,  partly  because  she  had  not  had 
time  to  change  her  dress,  and  she  hated  hav- 
ing to  hurry;  partly  because  Basil  had  called 
after  her  that  he  didn't  think  he  should  be 
home  to  dinner,  and  she  suspected  he  meant 
to  make  a  night  of  it,  and  drink  more  than 
was  good  for  him.  But  Gerald's  attempts 
at  gaiety  and  his  extreme  nervousness  ended 
by  distracting  her  attention  from  herself.  She 
had  observed  at  lunch  that  he  was  drinking  a 
good  deal  of  whisky;  and  now  in  his  physical 


58  THEBOND 

constraint,  the  tense  looks  of  his  ugly  but  charm- 
ing face,  and  the  occasional  twitch  of  his  hands, 
she  saw  familiar  signs  of  danger.  These  con- 
tinued when  they  were  seated,  and  even  through 
the  music.  The  string  quartette  played  wonder- 
fully. Teresa  could  not  help  enjoying  it,  though 
she  was  conscious  all  the  time  that  Gerald,  sit- 
ting with  his  arms  tightly  folded  across  his  thin 
chest,  was  not  listening.  They  did  not  talk 
much  during  the  pauses.  Gerald  had  talked  well 
enough  at  lunch,  and  Teresa  began  to  feel  irri- 
tated with  him,  and  terribly  sorry  for  him  at  the 
same  time.  However,  when  she  looked  at  him, 
during  the  last  of  the  programme,  and  met  his 
miserable  eyes,  she  felt  a  thrill  of  disgust. 

"  Gerald,  you'll  come  back  with  me  and  have 
tea,  won't  you?  "  she  whispered. 

He  shook  his  head,  "  I  can't,  thank  you." 

'Yes,  do.  I  want  to  go  to  my  studio  first, 
and  Miss  Pease  can  give  us  some  tea  there.  Then 
we  might  walk  for  an  hour,  and  you  could  dine 
with  me.  Basil  may  be  out,  and  I  hate  dining 
alone." 

"  I  can't." 

People  were  looking  at  them  severely,  and 
Teresa  said  no  more  till  the  music  ended  on  a 
beautiful  soft  contralto  strain  dominated  by  the 
violoncello,  which  kept  the  audience  a  moment 
in  their  seats  and  silent,  before  the  prolonged 
applause  and  noise  of  dispersal. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  59 

"  I  am  going  to  walk  down,  and  you  must 
come  a  little  way  with  me,"  she  commanded,  as 
they  moved  up  the  aisle  in  the  crowd. 

When  they  were  out  in  the  street  and  had  dis- 
tanced the  knots  and  groups  of  people,  so  that 
they  could  not  be  overheard,  Teresa  said,  look- 
ing straight  ahead : 

"  Would  you  rather  I  didn't  speak  of  it?  " 

Gerald  made  a  hopeless  gesture.  "  No  use," 
he  said  bitterly.  "  I'm  only  sorry  I've  made  a 
damned  fool  of  myself  and  spoilt  your  afternoon. 
Don't  think  about  me." 

"  You  know  I  can't  help  it.  Gerald,  how  long 
is  it  since — since  you " 

"  Since  I  made  a  beast  of  myself  last  time? 
It's  nearly  three  months,  and  now  it's  got  to 
come.  Don't — let  me  go  now — I  hate  myself 
for  going  to  your  house  to-day.  Will  you  for- 
give me?  Yes,  I  know  you  will,  and  you  despise 
me,  and  you  ought  to  despise  me,  Teresa.  I 
ought  to  have  the  decency  to  keep  away  from  you 
altogether — it's  the  only  sort  of  decency  I  might 
have  still." 

They  had  reached  a  street  corner,  and  Gerald 
stopped  short.  Teresa  felt,  suddenly,  very  tired, 
very  weak,  and  inclined  to  cry.  The  look  in 
his  eyes  chilled  and  disgusted  her,  as  it  had  done 
before.  She  put  her  grey  muff  up  to  her  face, 
and  two  tears  suddenly  fell  on  the  fur. 

"  Oh,  Teresa — don't,  for  God's  sake !  It  doesn't 


60  THEBOND 

matter  what  I  do.  It  doesn't  matter,  I  tell  you. 
I  shall  never  come  near  you  again." 

He  turned  round  and  fairly  bolted  up  the  side 
street.  Teresa  walked  on  down  the  avenue,  hold- 
ing her  muff  against  her  face,  and  drying  her 
tears  behind  it.  She  became  aware  that  she 
must  get  out  of  the  street,  and  that  she  wanted 
some  tea — hot,  strong,  and  bracing.  She  called 
a  cab,  and  drove  down  to  her  rooms.  Miss  Pease 
was  busy  with  some  visitors  in  the  studio,  and 
Teresa  made  her  own  tea  in  the  dining-room,  and 
cried  by  herself  on  the  divan  while  the  water 
was  heating.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat  and 
was  mopping  very  red  eyes  with  a  damp  hand- 
kerchief when  Miss  Pease,  a  subdued-looking 
girl,  came  in  with  a  little  bronze,  a  finger-high 
study  of  a  naked  child  playing  with  a  frog. 

"A  lady  wants  to  know  if  she  can  have  this 

for  thirty  dollars,  instead  of  thirty-five "  she 

began  neutrally,  then  said  in  embarrassment, 
"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon " 

"Tell  her  she  can't  have  it  at  all.  Tell  her 
it's  sold,"  snapped  Teresa. 

"  But "  began  timidly  Miss  Pease. 

"Tell  her  it's  sold!" 

Teresa  made  her  tea  almost  black,  and  drank 
three  large  cups  of  it.  Then  .she  took  out  her 
little  silver  cigarette-case  and  began  to  smoke, 
lying  back  on  the  divan.  She  had  ceased  to 
cry,  and  felt  perfectly  indifferent  to  every- 


THEBOND  61 

thing.  Let  Gerald  Dallas  drink  himself  to 
death  if  he  chose,  or  if  he  could  not  help  it.  He 
was  right — she  did  despise  him.  And  let  Basil 
dine  out  if  he  chose,  and  be  angry  about  noth- 
ing, and  make  himself  odious.  She  suspected 
that  he  was  beginning  to  have  secrets  from  her. 
If  so,  it  was  all  over  between  them.  It  was  clear 
that  no  dependence  was  to  be  placed  on  any  of 
the  creatures.  Aunt  Sophia  was  perfectly  right. 
She  thought  of  Aunt  Sophia  because  that  lady's 
voice — clear,  slightly  nasal  and  authoritative — 
was  now  to  be  heard  dominating  the  slight  buzz 
in  the  other  room. 


VI 

AUNT  SOPHIA  came  into  the  dining-room — 
tall,  handsome,  imposing,  in  grey  clothes 
that  rustled — and  peered  through  her  eye- 
glasses at  the  limp  person  on  the  divan. 

"  Teresa,  why  don't  you  have  a  light?  Can 
you  give  me  a  cup  of  tea,  I've  just  come  from 
our  Friday  meeting — why  are  you  feasting  by 
yourself  in  the  dark?" 

"Because  I've  been  crying,"  said  Teresa  lan- 
guidly, getting  up  to  turn  on  the  electric  light. 

"  Crying?  So  you  have.  Have  you  been  quar- 
relling with  Basil?  " 

"  Basil !  Whenever  I'm  upset,  Aunt  Sophia, 
you  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  it's  Basil." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  it  generally  is.  Whenever  I 
y  see  a  woman  unhappy,  I  know  a  man's  at  the 
bottom  of  it." 

Aunt  Sophy  poured  out  her  tea  and  added 
liberal  hot  water  with  a  firm  hand. 

"All  I  say  is,  don't  cry  over  them — they're 
not  worth  it,"  she  added. 

Aunt  Sophy  was  the  one  person  to  whom  Teresa 
ever  confided  anything.  This  she  did  for  two 
reasons :  First,  that  Aunt  Sophy  invariably  took 
her  side  with  passion — if  passion  could  be  as- 
sociated with  that  lady.  And  secondly,  that 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  03 

Aunt  Sophy's  temperament  and  views  of  life  be- 
ing diametrically  opposed  to  her  own,  this  sup- 
port always  had  the  effect  of  making  Teresa  see 
the  reason  of  the  other  side.  Hence  she  never 
took  any  of  Aunt  Sophy's  freely  offered  advice, 
but  usually  bore  away  from  such  an  interview 
an  increased  tenderness  for  Basil,  and  a  convic- 
tion that  women  in  their  own  right  were  ab- 
surd. But  Aunt  Sophy's  absurdity  was  amus- 
ing, and  also  it  was  a  comfort  occasionally  to 
Teresa  to  hear  her  husband  roundly  abused  un- 
der the  general  head  of  "  men." 

"  It's  more  than  Basil  this  time,"  she  said 
gloomily,  lighting  another  cigarette. 

"More  than  Basil!    You  don't  mean 

"  Oh,  nothing  shocking.  It's  only  a  friend  of 
mine — of  ours — who  has  gone  off  on  a  drunk." 

"  Teresa,  what  language ! "  Aunt  Sophy 
dropped  a  spoon  in  her  dismay. 

"  Well,  it's  what  Basil  calls  it.  It  really  is 
too  awful,  Aunt  Sophy.  I'm  so  fond  of  the 
poor  fellow — he's  just  as  dear  and  sweet  as  pos- 
sible— and  this  thing  is  ruining  him." 

"  Disgusting ! "  said  Aunt  Sophy. 

"  Yes,  it  is — it  is,  and  that's  the  worst  of  it. 
I  felt  this  afternoon,  when  I  looked  at  his  face 
and  saw  that  fearful  appetite  in  it,  and  imagined 
what  he'd  be  like  in  a  few  hours — I  thought  I 
never  wanted  to  see  him  again."  Teresa  half- 
sobbed  as  she  said  it. 


64  THEBOND 

"Well,  why  do  you  see  him  again?  Such  a 
man  is  unfit  for  decent  society.  If  he  can't  or 
won't  conquer  his  vile  habit,  surely  it's  too  much 
to  expect  a  woman  to  be  his  friend.  And  a 
young  woman,  too — really,  Teresa.  I  don't 
think  it's  at  all  proper  for  you.  I  suppose  he 
is  one  of  Basil's  friends?  " 

"  Yes — but  he  is  mine  too,  now.  And  yet  he's 
slipping  away  from  us.  In  just  this  year  I've 
known  him,  I've  seen  him  going  down.  And  I 
did  think — for  three  months  now  he's  been  quite 
straight — and  now,  to-night " 

Her  voice  faltered. 

"  It's  a  shame.  You  say  you  were  with  him 
this  afternoon — and  he  actually  told  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I  guessed — I  couldn't  help  knowing,  from 
his  looks — and  he  confessed  it." 

"  Teresa,  you  know  too  much  of  such  things ! 
Basil  ought  to  shelter  you  from  such  knowledge 
as  that — he  ought  not  to  allow " 

Teresa  laughed.  Aunt  Sophy  usually  argued 
that  the  husband's  authority  was  a  relic  of  bar- 
barism, not  to  be  recognised  by  any  woman  of 
spirit. 

"  Basil  doesn't  believe  in  sheltering  me,"  she 
said.  "  And  you  know  you  said  only  the  other 
day,  Aunt  Sophy,  that  the  day  of  the  clinging 
vine  was  over,  and  that  the  pretence  of  keeping 
a  strong  right  arm  between  us  and  the 
world " 


THEBOND  65 

"  I  did  say  it,  and  it's  true,  it  is  only  a  pre- 
tence— but  I  referred  particularly  to  material 
things,"  began  Aunt  Sophy. 

"But  you  congratulated  me  on  keeping  my 
independence  even  in  the  thraldom  of  marriage, 
and » 

"  I  meant  financial  independence.  Of  course, 
I  don't  think  any  woman  ought  to  be  depend- 
ent on  a  man  in  that  way — or  in  any  way  she 
can  help.  But  what  I  say  now  is  that  there  is 
no  need  for  thrusting  the  ugly  side  of  life  on 
us  more  than  is  necessary.  Let  the  men  keep 
their  weaknesses  to  themselves — as  much  as  they 
can.  That's  what  I  mean,  child.  Heaven  knows 
we  see  enough  of  them  at  their  worst,  anyhow, 
without  unnecessary  disclosures." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Teresa  musingly.  "They 
don't  seem  to  be  able  to  keep  anything  to  them- 
selves, that's  true." 

"No,  because  they  admire  themselves  in  ev- 
erything they  do.  As  somebody  or  other  says,  a 
mirror  tells  the  truth  to  a  woman,  but  it  always 
lies  to  a  man.  A  man  thinks  his  meanest  ac- 
tions are  justifiable  somehow,  if  only  on  the  plea 
of  necessity.  I  daresay  your  friend,  as  you  call 
him,  thinks  it  absolutely  necessary  for  him  to 
intoxicate  himself  once  in  so  often." 

"  I  suppose  he  does.  And  I  suppose  it  is/' 
said  Teresa  sorrowfully. 

"  Teresa,  Teresa !    You  are  taking  the  man's 


66  THEBOND 

point  of  view !  You  will  end  by  being  sorry  for 
that  creature,  because  he  makes  a  beast  of  him- 
self! Don't  lend  yourself  to  such  weakness,  I 
implore  you!  Any  person  who  wants  to  be 
decent  can  be  so.  ...  Teresa,  I  wish  you 
had  more  women  friends.  You  don't  see  enough 
of  women.  It  would  be  a  wholesome  corrective 
to  your  ideas.  It  is  a  very  bad  thing  to  asso- 
ciate almost  exclusively  with  men " 

"  They  are  more  interesting,"  said  Teresa,  in 
a  melancholy  minor. 

"  They  seem  so  now,  doubtless,  because  you 
are  very  young.  I  once  thought  so  myself,  be- 
fore I  married  your  uncle.  But  you  will  change 
your  mind,  Teresa,  and  perhaps  you  will  find 
some  day,  as  I  have,  the  keenest  interest  in 
identifying  yourself  with  the  cause  of  Woman." 

"Aunt  Sophy,  you've  been  making  a  speech 
at  the  club." 

"  Certainly  I  have.  We  had  a  very  success- 
ful meeting — several  enthusiastic  speeches,  and 
six  new  members  joined.  We  appointed  a  dele- 
gation to  go  to  Washington  next  month,  to  see 
our  senators  and  congressmen,  and  interview 
the  President." 

"And  are  you  one  of  them?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  unanimously  elected  spokesman." 

"  That's  because  you're  so  handsome,  Aunt 
Sophy.  They  depend  on  you  to  impress  the 
flinty  legislatorial  bosom." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  07 

"  Really,  my  dear,  I  prefer  to  believe  it  is 
because  I  have  some  powers  of  speech,"  said 
Mrs.  Boulter. 

However,  she  smiled.  She  was,  in  fact,  a 
handsome  woman,  with  remarkably  little  sug- 
gestion of  the  clinging  vine.  She  wras  very  erect, 
very  stately,  even  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  with 
large  blue  eyes,  a  broad  forehead,  thick  grey 
hair,  and  a  gracious  white-toothed  smile  which 
had  something  glacial  in  it — a  hint  of  her  native 
New  Hampshire  rock. 

"  How  nice  to  go  up  to  Washington,  and 
feel  so  important,"  said  Teresa  languidly.  She 
leaned  back  against  the  cushions  and  sighed. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  join  us?  "  enquired  Mrs. 
Boulter.  "  I'll  propose  your  name,  as  you  know, 
any  time  you  like.  And  I'm  sure  you  will  find 
the  work  exceedingly  interesting.  With  your  in- 
telligence you  are  sure  to  come  round  to  us 
sooner  or  later.  There's  nothing  like  marriage, 
too,  to  make  one  see  clearly  the  real  position  of 
woman.  When  you  do  see  it,  Teresa,  you  will 
want  to  stand  up  for  your  sex." 

Teresa  smiled  rather  wanly.  She  began  to  feel 
that  she  should  have  a  headache  as  the  result 
of  her  emotion  about  Gerald.  At  this  moment 
Miss  Pease  came  in,  agitated  and  flushed. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Ransome,"  she  cried,  "  what  do  you 
think  has  happened!  The  pearl  pendant — Miss 
Carruthers " 


68  THEBOND 

"  What — not  again !  "  said  Teresa. 

"  Yes — you  will  think  it  my  fault — I  was 
showing  it  to  someone  else,  and  carelessly  laid 
it  down — and  I  meant  to  watch  her  every  min- 
ute— but  she  slipped  out.  Of  course  I  will — pay 
for  it " 

"  Annette  Pease,  you  little  idiot ! "  said 
Teresa,  getting  up  and  arranging  her  hair  before 
a  glass.  "  Pay  for  it,  indeed !  I  know  you're 
careful — don't  worry  about  it.  We  put  these 
things  down  to  profit  and  loss." 

"What  is  it?  Miss  Carruthers?  Pearl  pen- 
dant? "  cried  Mrs.  Boulter. 

"  Yes,  the  Miss  Carruthers — father's  dear  old 
friend,  wrho  takes  such  an  interest  in  me !  Didn't 
you  know  she  was  a  kleptomaniac?  She's  run 
off  with  a  seed-pearl  and  emerald  thing,  and  I 
lose  about  eighty  dollars.  Never  mind.  Come 
along  home  with  me,  Aunt  Sophy,  come  to 
dinner." 

"  Eighty  dollars !  But,  surely,  you  can  get 
it  back." 

"  No,  I  can't,  without — making  trouble.  She 
would  just  deny  it.  Poor  old  thing,  she  was 
actually  arrested  once  for  shoplifting,  but  they 
hushed  it  up.  It's  pure  mania — she  has  money 
enough.  I've  heard  of  her  taking  the  spoons  off 
the  table  when  she  goes  out  to  dine." 

"  Well,  she  ought  to  be  locked  up ! "  said  Mrs. 
Boulter  sternly.  "  Why  don't  her  family  attend 


THEBOND  G9 

to  her?    It's  immoral  to  allow  people  to  go  on 
like  that.     Teresa,  you  ought  to  do  something." 

"  I'm  going  to — I'm  taking  you  home  to  din- 
ner. Basil  said  he  should  probably  dine  out." 

"Well — thank  you — I  shall  be  very  happy," 
said  Mrs.  Boulter,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
which  seemed  to  weigh  the  chances  of  Basil's 
dining  out.  Mrs.  Boulter,  in  fact,  was  one  of 
the  few  people  who  bored  Basil,  and  she  did  not 
enjoy  boring  him,  unless  she  could  do  it  from 
the  platform;  and  he  would  not  let  her  mount 
the  platform  in  his  presence.  Teresa  bade 
an  unusually  cordial  adieu  to  Miss  Pease,  and 
led  her  aunt,  still  protesting,  downstairs  and 
through  the  dark  hall. 

They  turned  into  the  avenue,  jammed  with 
the  home-going  crowd,  where  talk  was  an  im- 
possibility. Night  had  already  fallen,  between 
the  rows  of  high  buildings ;  but  the  lighted  shop- 
fronts,  the  street  lamps  and  the  electric  lights  of 
the  cars  succeeding  one  another  at  momentary 
intervals,  made  it  bright  as  day.  They  walked 
for  a  few  blocks  along  the  avenue,  breasting  the 
rustling  throng,  crossed  between  two  clanging 
cars  and  a  charging  body  of  cabs  and  automo- 
biles, and  turned  into  a  side  street.  Here  it  was 
quieter,  though  the  roar  of  the  avenue  still  pur- 
sued them,  even  into  the  palm-set  hall  of  the 
apartment  house. 

While  Mrs.  Boulter  was  admiring  "the  flowers 


70  THEBOND 

in  the  drawing-room,  Teresa  changed  her  dress 
for  a  white,  short-waisted  one,  put  a  necklace  of 
green  stones  round  her  bare  throat,  braided  her 
hair  in  two  braids  and  coiled  it  round  her  head, 
and,  returning,  she  took  one  of  the  Major's  white 
roses  and  stuck  it  in  the  braid  just  over  her 
left  ear. 

"  All  this  just  for  me?  "  said  Mrs.  Boulter. 
"  I  must  go  and  make  myself  pretty,  too — or,  at 
least,  presentable." 

She  disappeared  into  Teresa's  bedroom,  down 
the  hall.  Teresa  was  poking  up  the  fire  when 
the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  outer  door  made  her 
turn  and  smile,  her  eyes  suddenly  bright  and 
soft. 

Basil  came  in  with  the  slam  that  usually 
announced  him,  flinging  his  hat  and  coat  on  a 
seat  in  the  hall. 

"Hello!"  called  Teresa.  "Thought  you 
weren't  coming  back." 

"  Hello,  kid,"  he  responded  cheerfully.  He 
appeared,  with  two  parcels,  which  he  deposited 
on  a  table;  then  came  over  and  kissed  his  wife 
ardently,  touching  the  rose  in  her  hair,  and  the 
curve  of  her  neck. 

"  Changed  my  mind,"  he  said.  "  In  fact,  I 
met  a  man  and  asked  him  to  dinner  here." 

Teresa's  pleased  smile  faded  a  little. 

"Did  you?  I'm  afraid  there  isn't  much  din- 
ner," she  said. 


THEBOND  71 

"  Oh,  well,  you  can  send  out  for  a  steak,  can't 
you?  And  I  brought  some  bully  old  whisky  and 
cigars." 

"  That's  just  like  you — you  think  a  steak, 
whisky,  and  cigars  make  a  dinner,  don't 
you? "  said  Teresa  mockingly.  "  Who's  the 
man?  " 

"  Oh,  an  Englishman  I  met  at  the  club.  I 
knew  him  years  ago  in  Cairo,  just  for  a  day  or 
so — he's  a  nice  fellow,  you'll  like  him." 

"  What  time  is  he  coming?  "  enquired  Teresa 
coolly. 

"  Seven.  He's  going  to  the  theatre,  so  I  made 
it  early." 

"  Well,  I  must  interview  Mary."  Teresa  added 
reluctantly,  "  Aunt  Sophy's  here.  I  asked  her  to 
dinner." 

It  was  now  Basil's  turn  to  look  dashed,  and 
he  did  so  completely. 

"  Oh,  hell ! "  he  remarked,  the  gaiety  of  his 
face  quite  quenched ;  "  what  on  earth  did  you 
do  that  for?  " 

"  Why  shouldn't  I?  You  said  you  were  going 
out." 

"  I  said  I  might  go  out.  .  .  .  Well,  that 
spoils  everything.  You  can't  have  any  talks 
with  that  old  bore  about.  I  wish  I'd  known,  I'd 
have  given  him  dinner  at  the  club.  If  I  had  such 
boring  relatives  as  you've  got,  I  certainly 
wouldn't  have  them  around." 


72  THEBOND 

"  How  about  your  stepmother?  Didn't  I  ask 
her  to  lunch  last  week?  Aunt  Sophy's  brilliant 
in  comparison." 

"That's  different,"  growled  Basil.  "Lunch 
isn't  dinner.  One  doesn't  expect  to  be  bored  at 
dinner." 

Teresa  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  went  out 
to  see  the  cook.  When  she  returned  Mrs.  Boul- 
ter was  in  the  drawing-room  and  Basil  in  his 
bedroom,  whence  he  presently  called  to  her,  after 
fruitlessly  ringing  his  bell. 

"  Teresa,  there  isn't  one  single  clean  shirt  in 
my  bureau,  except  some  with  the  buttonholes 
torn !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Where  on  earth  is  my 
laundry? " 

He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  a  brush 
in  each  hand,  his  hair  fiercely  rumpled.  His 
broad  shoulders  contracted  nervously;  an  irri- 
table fire  shot  from  his  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Teresa  indifferently.  "  I 
suppose  Mary  forgot  it." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  she  did.  Why  doesn't  she 
answer  the  bell?  It's  impossible  to  get  anything 
done  properly  in  this  house." 

Teresa,  without  replying,  went  down  the  hall, 
and  returned  after  a  few  moments  with  a  large 
paper  bundle  suspended  by  a  string. 

"  There's  your  laundry,  cross-patch,"  she  ob- 
served loftily.  "And  all  because  of  poor  old 


THEBOND  73 

Aunt  Sophy,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  went 
into  the  drawing-room.  "  It's  odd  how  she  puts 
him  in  a  bad  humour.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
her,  he  wouldn't  have  minded  about  the  shirts. 
Really,  his  temper !  " 


VII 

TEE  dinner,  with  this  unpromising  begin- 
ning, was,  in  fact,  a  sad  failure.  Mary,  per- 
haps fatigued  from  her  efforts  at  lunch,  had  not 
risen  to  the  sudden  occasion,  and  the  steak  was 
overdone.  Mrs.  Boulter  was  very  much  in  the 
foreground,  and  to  make  matters  worse,  Erhart 
the  sculptor,  who  had  provided  himself  with  a 
standing  invitation  to  the  house,  dropped  in. 
On  him,  at  least,  the  excellent  old  whisky  was 
not  lost,  but  Basil's  guest,  the  Englishman,  de- 
clined it,  and  even  the  mild  lure  of  the  Chianti. 
A  guest  who  is  given  a  bad  dinner,  and  will 
drink  nothing  but  water,  is  a  trying  person. 
Basil  was  plainly  nervous,  and  therefore  more 
voluble  than  usual,  and  Erhart  provoked  as 
much  controversy  as  possible,  according  to  his 
wont.  He  even  argued  with  Mrs.  Boulter  on 
women's  rights,  while  she  hurled  the  Constitu- 
tion, the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  Benjamin  Franklin, 
and  the  doctrine  of  natural  right  at  him.  In 
reply  he  quoted  large  extracts  from  a  recently 
published  German  work,  in  which  women  were 
disposed  of  as  "  too  low  in  the  moral  scale  even 
to  be  criminals,"  and  were  denied  souls,  on  the 
basis  of  the  facts  that  the  soul  resides  in  the 

74 


THEBOND  75 

memory,  and  that  women  have  no  memory.  At 
this  proposition  two  crimson  spots  rose  to  Mrs. 
Boulter's  cheeks,  and  she  demanded  the  name 
and  presumable  dwelling  place  of  the  author, 
but,  on  learning  that  he  had  committed  suicide 
at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  she  ejaculated  in  stern 
triumph :  "  Exactly  what  I  should  have  ex- 
pected! Beware  how  you  give  currency  to  his 
ideas." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  commit  suicide?  "  re- 
joined Erhart,  his  long  blonde  face  wrinkling  in 
a  sarcastic  smile.  "  No,  madam,  I  intend  to  live 
to  make  the  statue  of  the  first  Woman-President. 
She  will  wear  knee-breeches,  and,  for  the  occa- 
sion, a  Roman  toga.  Her  pedestal  will  be  com- 
posed of  a  sewing-machine  and  an  overturned 
cradle,  with  the  motto,  '  Per  aspera  ad  nau- 
seam/ '• 

At  this  point  Teresa  interfered  and  sup- 
pressed Erhart,  and  Basil  began  to  talk  to  the 
Englishman,  whose  name  Teresa  had  not  made 
out,  about  the  East,  with  which  apparently  the 
latter  had  some  official  connection.  So  far  he 
had  said  very  little,  and  seemed  to  contemplate 
with  an  amused  and  slightly  astonished  air  the 
incongruous  company  in  which  he  found  him- 
self. He  was  a  man  of  an  unusual  type,  evidently 
not  of  unmixed  English  blood,  above  the  medium 
height,  lean  and  delicately  made,  dark,  and  with 
a  curious  colour  in  which  grey  predominated 


76  THEBOND 

over  brown.  His  dark  eyes  were  very  observant, 
his  dress  was  meticulously  careful,  his  man- 
ner quiet,  and  especially  so  by  contrast  with 
that  of  three  out  of  the  other  four  at  the  table. 
Teresa  alone  had  anything  approaching  his  own 
inexpressive  repose.  She  was  as  unmoved  as 
though  the  dinner  had  turned  out  well,  and  the 
talk  had  gone  smoothly,  and  as  little  talkative 
herself.  Basil,  on  whom  the  social  burden 
seemed  to  rest,  fidgetted  distinctly  under  it,  and 
drank  more  of  the  old  whisky  than  he  might 
have  done  otherwise.  He  and  Teresa  exchanged 
the  sort  of  cheerful  glances  which  masked  on  his 
part  a  grievance  and  on  hers  a  calm  perception 
that  he  was  unreasonable.  True,  the  evening 
was  spoilt,  but  why  allow  a  little  passing  dis- 
comfort to  disturb  one's  whole  moral  being?  An 
uncomfortable  social  situation  was,  however,  a 
positive  torment  to  Basil.  By  as  much  as  he 
expanded  and  glowed  when  he  was  at  ease,  by 
the  extent  of  his  possible  charm,  was  to  be  meas- 
ured the  effect  on  him  of  this  sort  of  mishap. 
Teresa  reflected  about  him,  while  talk  went  on 
disjointedly,  and  arrived  at  a  feeling  of  keen 
liking  for  him ;  she  saw  something  lovable  even 
in  the  way  he  hurled  himself  into  his  coat,  and 
departed  with  the  Englishman;  for,  when  the 
latter  had  declined  coffee  and  liqueurs,  it  was 
already  rather  late  for  his  theatre. 

Aunt  Sophy  soon  went  away,  and  Erhart  was 


THEBOND  77 

left  on  Teresa's  hands.  They  drank  their  coffee 
before  the  open  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  Teresa 
thinking  about  the  volume  of  the  Arabian 
Nights,  to  which  she  would  get  back  as  soon 
as  he  went,  and  listening  absently  to  his  un- 
favourable remarks  about  the  English.  At  last 
he  said  abruptly: 

"  You  are  bored — I  shall  go.  I'm  sorry  I  came 
to-night.  You  are  bored  with  most  people,  aren't 
you?  And  you  are  almost  always  bored  with 
me.  ...  I  suppose  I  did  not  behave  well 
to-night?  " 

"  I'm  tired — that's  all.  But  you  were  horridly 
rude  to  my  aunt,"  said  Teresa. 

"Well,  how  can  I  help  it?  She  is  such  an 
awful  fool,  you  know.  She  knows  nothing  about 
anything.  What  do  women  expect  when  they 
take  that  tone,  anyway?  They  are  just  as  much 
insulted  when  you're  polite  to  them;  they  think 
it's  condescension.  I  don't  know  what  they  want 
— except  a  chance  to  lecture  us.  And  that  they 
can  do  much  better  in  private.  Hasn't  your 
aunt  got  a  husband?  " 

"  She  had  one,"  said  Teresa,  with  a  glimmer- 
ing smile.  "  But  he  vanished.  The  combina- 
tion of  lectures  and  boarding-house  life  was  too 
much  for  him.  He  evaporated." 

" I'll  bet  he  did.  What  a  woman!  You  might 
as  well  marry  a  high-pressure  cylinder.  She's 
a  typical  American." 


78  THEBOND 

"  She  would  be  proud  to  hear  you  say  so.  She 
considers  the  American  woman  the  crowning 
triumph  of  civilisation." 

Erhart  made  a  profane  exclamation.  "Then 
.civilisation  might  as  well  come  to  an  end.  It 
would,  too,  if  it  depended  on  the  American 
woman.  She  would  have  no  children,  she  would 
starve  out  the  men,  and  then  what?  A  lot  of 
Kilkenny  cats,  they  would  eat  one  another.  A 
tough  meal  your  aunt  wrould  make,  too!  I  be- 
lieve she's  made  of  whalebone  and  gutta-percha." 

"  You  like  women  made  of  butter  and  jam, 
don't  you?  " 

"  Oh,  heavens,  I  don't  like  any  kind  of  women," 
said  Erhart,  getting  up  to  go.  "  At  least  any 
show  kind.  They  ought  to  be  kept  behind  the 
veil.  Tell  your  aunt  that,  from  me." 

He  lingered  a  moment,  moving  about  with  his 
oddly  beautiful  hands  the  small  pieces  of  porce- 
lain on  the  mantelpiece,  then  said :  "  I'm  sorry 
I  have  bored  you.  But  I'm  not  sorry  I  was  rude 
to  your  aunt." 

"  Oh — rudeness  is  the  most  boring  thing,  I 
think,"  murmured  Teresa.  "  I  hate  quarrelling, 
especially  at  meals." 

"  You  call  all  discussion  quarrelling !  What 
would  you  have?  Everybody  bowing  and  scrap- 
ing and  agreeing  with  one  another?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  discuss  with  you ! " 
said  Teresa,  laughing,  and  he  finally  took  him- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  79 

self  off,  with  a  look  of  pique  on  his  cold  North- 
ern face.  Teresa  yawned,  got  herself  a  cigarette 
and  her  volume  of  Arabian  Nights,  and  made 
herself  comfortable  in  a  long  chair  between  lamp 
and  fire. 

But  she  did  not  begin  reading  immediately. 
She  lay  thinking  vaguely  of  the  incidents  of  the 
day.  She  was  tired,  and  her  thoughts  had  the 
incoherence  of  dreams.  Gerald  Dallas  and  Miss 
Carruthers  were  oddly  mixed  up  in  them.  She 
remembered  a  visit  she  had  paid  Miss  Carruth- 
ers, when  the  old  maid  had  taken  her  up  into 
a  bedroom,  and  showed  her  a  curious  collection 
of  treasures — rolls  upon  rolls  of  silk  and  chiffon, 
boxes  of  lace,  of  long  delicate  gloves,  and  silk 
stockings,  jewelled  hair  ornaments,  and  filmy 
scarves.  All  these,  were  dimly  destined  to  the 
adornment  of  a  pathetic,  withered  person,  and 
yet  would  probably  never  be  worn;  for  some- 
thing prevented  Miss  Carruthers  from  actually 
appearing  in  them.  She  usually  wore  drabs 
and  faded  yellows  in  public,  but  her  passion  for 
the  accumulation  of  these  frivolities  of  a  pretty 
woman's  toilette  furnished  the  main  pleasure  of 
her  life.  The  emerald  and  pearl  pendant  had 
now  doubtless  been  added  to  her  hoard.  Aunt 
Sophy  would  have  held  her  sternly  responsible; 
Aunt  Sophy  knew  exactly  where  to  draw  the 
line  of  moral  responsibility.  She  had  drawn  it 
in  Gerald's  case,  too,  with  unhesitating  hand. 


80  THEBOND 

Anyone  who  wanted  to  be  decent  could  be;  and 
decency  was  an  exact  quantity.  It  took  no  ac- 
count of  kinks  in  the  brain,  of  perverted  in- 
stincts like  poor  Miss  Carruthers' — of  physical 
obsessions  stronger  than  the  will.  If  you  were 
afflicted  in  any  such  way  you  ought  to  be  "  shut 
up."  But  how  much  pleasure  and  colour  would 
be  taken  out  of  life  if  all  except  rigidly  recti- 
linear and  decent  people  were  shut  up ! 

Even  Aunt  Sophy  herself — probably  now 
seated  in  her  solitary  room  at  the  boarding- 
house,  before  a  desk  loaded  with  papers  on 
Woman  Suffrage — Aunt  Sophy  had  deserted  her 
husband.  Teresa  wondered  if  she  never  re- 
gretted the  domestic  atmosphere,  even  though 
her  boarding-house  was  an  elegant  one,  and  she 
was  called  a  paying  guest.  But  after  all  a  do- 
mestic atmosphere  pervaded  by  Aunt  Sophy 
must  almost  itself  suggest  the  paying  guest. 
And  her  favourite  phrase  about  the  vanished 
Mr.  Boulter  had  been :  "  Your  uncle  can  be 
more  disagreeable  than  any  man  that  ever 
lived."  Aunt  Sophy  thought  marriage  a  hideous 
state  of  bondage.  Teresa's  cheerful  view  of  it 
always  astonished  her,  but  she  said,  "  Just  wait, 
my  dear.  It  isn't  in  the  first  year  that  you  learn 
to  know  a  man." 

Poor  Aunt  Sophy!  But  she  should  not  have 
married  a  disagreeable  man.  Marriage  was  very 
simple.  You  married  a  person  you  liked,  and 


THE     BOND  81 

did  just  as  you  liked,  exactly  as  before;  and  the 
person  adored  you,  and  even  if  be  lost  bis  tem- 
per sometimes  over  a  beefsteak,  or  a  missing 
sbirt,  be  was  still  tbe  most  charming  person  in 
the  world. 

Teresa  smiled,  looking  into  the  fire,  which  had 
sunk  together  into  a  red  core  of  coals.  It  struck 
her  that  bed  would  be  a  more  comfortable  place 
to  read.  Basil  objected  to  her  reading  in  bed, 
but  all  the  same  she  had  had  an  electric  light 
hung  just  over  her  pillow,  and  she  quoted  Charles 
Lamb  to  prove  to  him  that  it  was  the  only 
place  to  read  in.  When  she  had  arranged  her- 
self luxuriously  under  this  light,  in  her  quiet 
room,  where  the  roar  of  the  city  ascended  only 
as  a  muffled  bass,  she  unbraided  her  long  braids, 
and,  with  the  book  propped  on  her  knees,  she 
slowly  brushed  the  dark  ripples  of  hair  out  to 
their  ends,  and  began  to  read  : 

"II  y  avait,  dans  la  ville  de  Baghdad,  un 
homme  qui  etait  celibatalre  et  aussi  portefaix. 

"  Un  jour  d'entre  les  jours,  pendant  qu'il  etait 
dans  le  souk,  nonchalamment  appuye  sur  sa 
hotte,  void  que  devant  lui  s'arreta  une  femme 
enveloppee  de  son  ample  voile  en  etoffe  de  Mous- 
soul,  en  soie  parsemee  de  paillettes  d'or  et 
doublee  de  brocart.  Elle  souleva  un  peu  son  petit 
voile  de  visage  et,  d'en  dessous,  alors,  apparurent 
des  yeux  noirs  avec  de  longs  cils  et  quelles  pan- 


82  THEBOND 

piercs!     Et  elle  etait  svelte  et  fin  d'extremites, 
parfaite  des  qualites.     .     .     ." 

She  read  on  and  on,  for  an  hour;  then  her 
eyelids  dropped,  her  head  sank  on  the  pillow, 
and  she  slept,  still  holding  the  book.  .  .  . 

The  latchkey  turning  in  the  lock  woke  her. 
She  heard  Basil  stop  outside  her  door,  and  speak 
her  name  in  a  low  voice.  She  answered,  and  he 
came  in. 

"  What  are  you  doing — reading  at  this  time 
of  night?  "  he  asked,  frowning  slightly,  and  look- 
ing pale. 

"Why,  what  time  of  night  is  it?"  said  Teresa 
sleepily. 

"  Oh,  late — after  two.  Look  here,  you  prom- 
ised  me  you  wouldn't " 

"  No,  I  didn't.  Where  have  you  been,  you 
dissipated  wretch,  tell  me  that ! " 

"  Oh,  nowhere  in  particular.  I  met  some  fel- 
lows, and  we  sat  around  talking " 

"  And  drinking?  " 

"  Well,  a  little " 

"  A  good  deal,  I  imagine.  I  thought  you  said 
you  wouldn't " 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  want  to  knock  about  at 
night,  if  you'd  make  it  comfortable  at  home.  .  .  ." 

Teresa  made  no  reply,  and  after  a  moment  he 
went  out.  She  braided  her  hair  in  the  two  long 
braids,  turned  out  the  electric  light,  and  lay 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  83 

looking  at  the  window,  vaguely  lit  by  reflections 
from  the  street. 

Basil  came  back,  as  she  had  known  he  would ; 
wrapped  in  his  blue  dressing-gown,  he  sat  down 
on  the  side  of  her  bed,  and  began  : 

"  You  must  admit  you  spoiled  the  dinner  to- 
night." 

"No — did  I?"  said  Teresa  sleepily. 

"You  know  you  did!  Not  only  your  aunt — 
perhaps  that  was  an  accident — but  I've  asked 
you  a  dozen  times  to  get  another  cook,  and  yet 
you  will  keep " 

"  Oh,  Basil,  you  think  cooks  grow  on  black- 
berry bushes!  You  must  admit  she  gave  us  a 
delicious  lunch,  and  it's  rather  a  trial  to  have 
three  other  guests  shot  in  unexpectedly  for  din- 
ner  " 

"  You're  so  soft  about  her !  If  you  gave  her 
a  good  hauling  over  now  and  then  she  might  do 
better " 

"  Basil,  you're  an  idealist." 

"  Yes,  that's  right,  joke  about  it !  Much  you 
care  how  things  go  on,  and  whether  I'm  uncom- 
fortable or  not.  You  don't  care  a  damn  for  me, 
that's  the  truth.  To-day  you  wouldn't  come 
and  pose  to  oblige  me,  you  preferred  to  spend  the 
afternoon  with  Dallas " 

"  I  had  an  engagement  with  him." 

"  You  might  have  come  afterwards." 

"  I  couldn't.    I  was  feeling  too  ill." 


84  THEBOND 

"111?    What  made  you  ill?" 

"  He  did — Gerald.  He  told  me  he  was  going 
to  get  drunk." 

"  He  did !  By  Jove,  poor  old  Gerald — I  began 
to  think  he  might  be  going  to  run  straight  after 
all.  But  now  he'll  go  it,  once  he's  broken  out. 
Poor  devil ! " 

"What— will  he  do?  "  asked  Teresa  faintly. 

"  Do !  He'll  drink  whisky  till  he's  blind  drunk, 
and  then,  when  he's  got  his  breath,  he'll  begin 
again.  He'll  keep  it  up  for  a  week,  very  likely, 
and  then  somebody'll  pick  him  up  out  of  the 
gutter,  and  he'll  be  sick  and  sorry  for  a  month." 

"What  horrid  idiots  men  are,"  said- Teresa. 

"  Perhaps  they  are,  but  they're  not  so  egotistic 
as  women,"  said  Basil  stiffly,  recollecting  his 
grievance. 

He  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  moving  his  shoul- 
ders nervously.  Teresa  smiled  in  the  darkness. 
He  did  not  want  to  go  to  bed  with  that  griev- 
ance. He  was  tired  of  it.  She  was  silent,  too, 
wickedly. 

"  Good-night ! "  he  said  abruptly,  getting  up. 

She  let  him  get  to  the  door,  then  she  called  him 
back. 

"  Oh,  come  here  a  minute,  I  want  to  ask  you 
something." 

«  Well,  what  is  it?  "    He  stood  still. 

"  Come  here,  can't  you?  " 

"  Can't  you  ask  from  there?  " 


THEBOND  85 

"  No.    Come  here,  I  tell  you." 

He  approached  with  dignity,  and  sat  down  on 
the  extreme  edge  of  the  bed. 

"  Well,  hurry  up,  I'm  cold." 

His  tone  was  aggressive,  but  Teresa  read  be- 
neath it.  She  reached  up  and  put  one  bare  arm 
round  his  neck,  and  murmured: 

"Silly  old  thing!" 

He  made  an  effort  to  hold  his  position.  "  You 
won't  do  a  thing  I  ask  you  to !  You  won't  even 
stop  reading,  though  you're  spoiling  your  eyes. 
.  .  .  You  don't  care  anything  about  me, 
that's  the  real  truth!  If  you  did,  you " 

She  drew  his  head  down  and  kissed  him. 

"  Idiot ! "  she  murmured. 

His  arms  went  round  her,  caught  her  up,  held 
her  close. 
\  "  How  I  love  you !  "  he  said  angrily. 


yn 

fTlHE  May  morning  was  warm.  Its  soft  ra- 
•*•  diance  penetrated  the  studio,  even  with  the 
north  light,  and  the  patch  of  sky  seen  through 
the  upper  half  of  the  open  window  was  tenderly, 
opaquely  blue,  crossed  by  an  occasional  small 
downy  cloud.  The  first  touch  of  summer  lan- 
guor was  in  the  air.  The  rattle  of  wheels  and 
whirr  of  cars  in  the  streets  below,  and  the  street 
cries,  seemed  oddly  softened,  as  though  the 
world  had  grown  more  spacious.  Two  great 
masses  of  lilacs,  in  brown  jars,  set  on  the  floor 
of  the  studio,  sent  out  their  fresh  perfume.  Basil 
sang  tunelessly  as  he  worked,  and  his  eyes 
glowed  happily.  Teresa  was  posing  for  a  pic- 
ture, begun  some  weeks  before,  but  interrupted 
by  her  own  engagements,  or  Basil's.  Basil  had 
usually  a  picture  of  Teresa  in  some  stage  of 
progress.  He  had  painted  her  a  dozen  times, 
and  each  time  the  picture  had  been  sold.  How- 
ever, Basil  was  only  "  one  of  the  promising 
younger  men."  He  had  often  occasion  to  laugh 
at  such  a  judgment  upon  himself.  Newspaper 
praise  or  blame  merely  amused  him,  and  he  did 
not  even  care  much  whether  he  sold  his  pictures 
or  not;  "  except,"  as  he  said,  "  that  one  doesn't 
want  too  many  of  them  round,  mussing  up  the 

86 


THEBOND  87 

place.  I  shouldn't  like  to  live  in  the  midst  of 
an  unbroken  circle  of  my  creations,  like  Erhart, 
for  instance.  And  giving  them  away  is  an  un- 
worthy subterfuge."  His  successes  had  been 
made  so  far  with  portraits.  Character  inter- 
ested him  as  much  as  paint,  and,  though  brother 
artists  agreed  that  "  his  colour  was  sour,  and 
his  drawing  bad,"  the  sitters  were  always  in- 
terested in  what  he  made  of  them.  The  portrait 
was  something  to  talk  about,  though  usually, 
"  It  doesn't  half  do  you  justice,  my  dear.  Your 
nose  really  isn't  as  large  as  that,  and  as  for  your 
complexion — well,  I  suppose  yellow  and  mauve 
are  the  latest  discoveries,  so  we  must  say  noth- 
ing— still,  there  is  a  likeness " 

Teresa  was  sitting  in  a  high-backed  Italian 
chair;  she  wore  a  white  dress,  and  a  flat,  black 
chip  hat,  tied  under  her  chin.  In  her  hands 
she  had  a  bit  of  red  clay,  from  which  she  was 
modelling  a  tiny  statuette  of  a  faun.  She  did 
not  like  posing,  and  had  stipulated,  in  this  pic- 
ture, for  something  to  do.  Basil,  accordingly, 
painted  her  looking  down,  musingly,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  hat,  at  the  faun.  He  had  roughly 
sketched  in  the  lower  part  of  the  figure,  and  was 
still  working  on  the  face. 

"  I  shall  call  it  l  The  Girl  and  the  Clay/  "  he 
said.  "  You  may  be  supposed  to  be  '  making  a 
poet  out  of  a  man ' — though  the  ordinary  thing 
would  be  to  make  a  man  out  of  a  poet." 


88  THEBOND 

"  A  man  is  better  than  a  poet,"  said  Teresa 
lazily.  "  But  I  am  only  making  a  faun  out  of 
nothing." 

"  Out  of  nothing — out  of  nothing !  "  murmured 
Basil,  studying  his  canvas  with  knitted  brows. 
He  laid  down  his  sheaf  of  brushes  and  palette, 
and  stretched  his  arms  with  a  yawn.  "  You  are 
making  it  out  of  red  dirt  and  borrowed  ideas. 
What  so  absurd  as  making  a  faun  at  this  era 
of  the  world's  history?  " 

"  It  is  good  enough  for  the  handle  of  a  paper- 
knife,  anyway,"  said  Teresa  placidly. 

"  So  inappropriate !  What  on  earth  has  a 
faun  got  to  do  with  cutting  books?  " 

"  I  am  making  him  with  a  leer,  so  that  he 
will  say,  every  time  you  look  at  him,  '  What  a 
fool  you  are  to  waste  your  time ! '  Of  course,  he 
is  only  to  be  used  for  cutting  German  philoso- 
phers. I  think  I'll  engrave  on  the  blade, 

"  'Grau,  meine  Freund,  ist  alle  Theorie, 
Und  griin  des  Lebens  goldne  Baum.' " 

"  You're  an  immoral  little  wretch,  with  your 
fauns  and  sprites  and  pixies!  What  a  day — 
o-oh ! "  And  he  stretched  out  his  arms  again 
with  a  groan. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  day?  It's  a  good 
day.  You're  lazy." 

"  No,  it's  the  spring !  Don't  you  feel  it,  cold 
one?  " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  89 

"  Yes,  I  feel  it,  but  it  doesn't  make  me  yawn 
like  a  gryphon,  and  deliver  myself  of  uncouth 
noises." 

"  Well,  it  does  me.  I'm  an  earth  creature.  I 
want  to  get  out  and  roll  in  the  grass — ow-woof ! 
Let's  go  out  in  the  country." 

"  All  right ! "  said  Teresa,  springing  up. 
"  Anything  to  get  out  of  this  beastly  posing. 
Now,  remember,  you  stopped  this  of  your  own 
accord." 

"  So  I  did."  Basil  enveloped  her  in  his  arms 
and  bit  her  neck.  She  cried  out  and  pushed  her- 
self away  from  him. 

"  Basil !  I'm  sure  that  will  leave  a  mark,  and 
you  know  I'm  going  out  to  dinner  to-night ! " 
She  fled  to  the  mirror,  and  it  reflected  an  angry 
countenance. 

"  No,  it  won't,  and,  if  it  does,  it  will  only  make 
you  look  nicer.  There — forgive  me,  will  you? — 
I  didn't  mean  to  hurt." 

"  You're  so  rough,"  sighed  Teresa.  She  took 
off  the  chip  hat,  and  began  changing  her  dress. 
"  Lock  the  door,  will  you?  Some  of  your  ladies 
might  come  bursting  in." 

"  My  ladies !  "  scoffed  Basil. 

He  locked  the  door,  and  came  back  with  some 
letters  in  his  hand  to  hinder  Teresa  from  dress- 
ing. To  divert  his  attention,  she  snatched  one 
of  the  letters — a  fat  grey  envelope,  addressed  in 
a  dashing  hand. 


90  THEBOND 

"  There — love  letters  again !  I'm  going  to 
open  it !  " 

"  All  right.  But  I  thought  we  agreed  not  to 
read  each  other's  letters?  How  pretty  you  are 
to-day,  Teresa !  I  must  paint  you  in  a  low  dress 
— something  blue — that  white  skin  of  yours,  with 
the  ivory  undertone " 

Teresa  had  opened  the  grey  envelope,  and 
looked  at  the  signature, 

"  Isabel  Perry !  Now,  why  should  she  write 
to  you,  Basil?  You  didn't  tell  me " 

"  Don't  know.  I've  never  had  a  letter  from 
her  before.  About  the  picture,  I  daresay." 

"  Picture !  Eight  pages  about  the  picture ! 
Shall  I  read  it?  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  want  to.  But  perhaps  you  might 
let  me  read  it  first,  as  it's  addressed  to  me." 

Basil  was  "perfectly  good-humoured  and  un- 
embarrassed. He  looked  amused. 

"  No,  I  shall  read  it  to  you,"  said  Teresa,  sit- 
ting down  half-dressed  and  glancing  rapidly 
over  the  first  pages.  "  The  interesting  parts, 
that  is.  There's  a  lot  about  the  motor  and  the 
roads  and  the  people — she  pretends  to  be  bored 
— *  I  sit  with  a  veil  over  my  face,  and  he  sits 
beside  me  with  goggles  on,  and  he  could  not  see 
me  even  if  I  had  no  veil  and  he  no  goggles ' — 
how  silly!  She's  a  femme  incomprise,  is  she? 
'Can't  tell  you  how  many  thousands  of  miles 
distant  I  feel  from  these  people,  stupefied  by  so 


THEBOND  91 

many  hours'  rushing  through  the  fresh  air,  or 
by  food  and  drink  and  their  own  physical  well- 
being.  .  .  .  But,  oh,  the  glory  of  the  sea, 
the  wind,  the  clouds.  .  .  .'  She  loves  nature, 
does  she?  .  .  .  '  I've  thought  of  you  a  good 
deal,  and  of  our  talks.  You  have  the  gift  of 
making  one  say  more  than  one  means  to  say, 
but  you  understand  so  well  that  it  makes  it  all 
right.  Who  taught  you  all  you  know  about  life? 
I  am  older  than  you,  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  the 
world,  and  yet  you  are  so  much  surer  than  I,  of 
yourself  and  of  other  people.  I'm  sure  of  noth- 
ing, except  that  I  cannot  go  on  as  I  am  living 
now.  I  don't  know  what  is  before  me,  but  al- 
ready I  feel  as  though  I  had  left  all  this  crowd 
of  people  that  are  despoiling  me  of  my  life  far 
behind,  as  though  I  were  flying  along  the  road 
to  freedom — Freedom!  It  may  be  only  death. 
I'm  in  a  machine  that's  beyond  my  control,  and 
who  knows  what  the  next  turn  of  the  road  may 
bring?  Oh,  God!  if  I  could  only  give  myself 
to  something  entirely  worthy,  if  I  could  get 
away  from  this  trivial  self  of  mine.  .  .  .' " 

Teresa's  voice  faltered.  She  threw  the  letter 
down,  and  sat  looking  at  the  floor,  her  lips  pout- 
ing with  an  injured  expression.  Basil  was  silent, 
and  when  she  glanced  up  at  him  she  saw  that 
he  looked  uncomfortable.  He  took  the  letter, 
folded  it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
/  a  ^hy  does  she  write  to  you  like  that?  " 


92  THEBOND 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  don't  know. 
She's  an  expressive  person." 

"  Expressive !  She's  hysterical.  But  you 
aren't  her  father-confessor,  are  you?  " 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Teresa.  Why  shouldn't 
she  talk  or  write  to  me,  if  she  feels  like  it?  She's 
an  interesting  woman,  and  she's  unhappy." 

"  Of  course  she's  unhappy.  It's  very  easy  for 
a  woman  who  has  a  heap  of  money,  good  looks, 
and  a  kind  husband  to  be  unhappy.  To  be 
contented  would  be  simply  commonplace.  It 
would  prove  that  she  had  no  soul  at  all.  And, 
besides,  what  could  she  talk  about  to  other 
men?  " 

Basil  was  grave.  "  She  isn't  a  trivial  woman," 
he  said.  "  You  don't  understand  that  tempera- 
ment, Teresa.  She  is  really  unworldly,  she  has 
a  lot  of  energy  which  she  can't  put  into  ordinary 
channels " 

"Very  well,  but  she  needn't  employ  it  on 
you ! "  Teresa  got  up  and  flung  herself  into  his 
arms.  "  She  is  in  love  with  you !  That's  what 
she  means  by  ( something  entirely  worthy/  .  .  ." 

"You  little  idiot!  .  .  .  What's  the  mat- 
ter with  you  lately,  Teresa?  When  did  you  get 
this  idea  that  women  fall  in  love  with  me?  They 
don't!  And  even  if  they  did,  it  wouldn't  mat- 
ter. You  know  perfectly  well  I  never  think  of 
anyone  but  you." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  clung  to  him,  and  he 


THEBOND  93 

began  coaxing  her,  with  half-laughing,  tender 
phrases  that  showed  a  distinct  pleasure  in  her 
jealousy. 

"  I  believe  you  put  it  on,  simply  to  please 
me,"  he  suggested. 

"  No !  "  she  said  passionately. 


In  an  hour  they  were  in  a  train,  going  out 
through  the  smoky  tunnel,  and  the  bleak  rec- 
tangular outskirts  of  the  city,  into  the  fields. 
The  car  was  almost  empty.  They  sat  hand-in- 
hand.  Teresa's  face  was  full  of  light  and  colour ; 
her  narrow  eyes  gleamed  joyously;  she  leaned 
against  Basil's  shoulder  with  a  soft  nestling  of 
her  pliant  body.  They  opened  the  window  as 
soon  as  they  were  out  of  the  tunnel,  and  the 
spring  air  blew  in  upon  them,  mixed  with  cin- 
ders which  nobody  minded.  Then  came  the 
smell  of  the  sea.  They  got  out  at  a  smart  subur- 
ban station  and  walked  away  from  it,  over  a 
hill,  through  budding  woods  and  newly  turned 
fields  and  banks  of  green  grass  mixed  with  shelves 
of  rock.  The  blue  sky  was  dappled  all  over  now 
with  cloud-feathers  that  melted  and  formed 
anew  every  moment.  Teresa  sang: 

"'  Im  tvunderschonen  Monat  Mai, 
'Als  alle  Knospen  sprangen, 
Da  ist  in  meinem  Herzen 
Die  Liebe  ausgegangen. 


94  THEBOND 

"  '  Im  rvunderschonen  Monat  Mai, 
Als  alle  Vogel  sangen, 
Da  hab'  ich  ihr  gestanden 
Mein  Sehnen  und  Verlangen.'  " 


Their  eyes  met.  The  song  was  enwrapped 
with  memories  of  the  first  days  of  their  mar- 
riage. Heine  had  been  the  poet  of  their  love. 

They  lunched  gaily  together  at  a  little  res- 
taurant on  the  edge  of  a  bay,  a  sort  of  road- 
house  with  a  stuffy  parlour  and  one  slow  waiter, 
like  a  winter-frozen  fly,  waiting  for  warm 
weather  to  unlimber.  They  were  alone  on  the 
wide  verandah  overlooking  the  wet  flats  from 
which  the  tide  was  still  receding;  and  they 
clasped  hands  and  even  kissed  one  another 
across  the  little  table.  After  lunch  they  found 
a  warm  nook  by  the  side  of  a  rock  in  an  old 
apple  orchard.  Before  them  were  only  silent 
fields  and  woods  and  the  smooth  blue  Sound. 
iThe  apple  trees  were  in  bloom,  a  mist  of  pink 
spread  over  the  hillside,  and  white  petals  drifted 
down  on  the  grass  with  every  soft  breath  of 
wind.  Teresa  sat  on  the  ground,  leaning  against 
the  rock.  Basil  lay  with  his  head  in  her  lap,  and 
his  grey  hat  over  his  eyes.  She  hummed 
dreamily : 

"  Es  war  ein  Eonig  im  Thule,"  and  prevented 
him  from  going  to  sleep  by  teasing  him  with  a 
feathery  grass.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat;  the 


THEBOND  95 

sun  shone  down  on  her  through  the  pink  blos- 
soms; her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  the  sea  or  sky, 
and  expressed  a  wistful  happiness. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about?  "  asked  Basil, 
looking  up  sleepily,  and  imprisoning  her  hand 
with  the  tormenting  grass. 

"  Nothing  very  wise." 

" '  Que  m'importe  que  tu  sols  sage? 
Sois  belle,  et  sois  triste!  ' 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  like  me  when  I'm  triste" 

"  I  like  you  any  way,  my  child,  any  way — if 
only  you'll  talk  to  me,  and  tell  me  why  and 
wherefore " 

"  One  can't  talk  all  the  time.  It  always  makes 
me  sad  to  be  happy,  for  then  you  dread  change, 
and  everything  changes." 

"  Dearest,  would  you  like  to  go  on  as  we  are, 
then?" 

"  Yes,  forever.  I  don't  want  anything  more, 
nor  anything  less." 

"  You  want  whatever  you  have.  You  didn't 
want  me  till  you  got  me!  Life  has  to  be  forced 
on  you — then  you  like  it  well  enough !  " 

"  But  no  more  of  it — I  don't  want  any  more. 
I'm  afraid  of  you,  you're  so  omnivorous !  You're 
always  wanting  something  new,  always  being 
interested  in  new  people.  Some  day  you'll  be 
tired  of  me." 

He  laughed.     "  It's  much  more  apt  to  be  the 


96  THEBOND 

other  way  round.  I'm  surer  than  you  are.  I 
lived  for  thirty  years  in  the  world  before  I  saw 
you,  and  never  saw  another  woman  that  I  wranted 
for  more  than  a  moment.  When  I  saw  you  I 
knew  I  wanted  you  forever.  But  you  didn't 
want  me." 

"  I  want  you  now,  though !  And  I  don't  want 
anyone  else  to  have  even  a  thought  of  you — I 
hate  to  think  that  some  women  have  memories  of 
you.  I  don't  like  it  that  women  write  to  you,  and 
tell  you  their  secrets " 

She  broke  off  suddenly  and  laughed. 

"  What  an  idiot  I'm  getting  to  be !  You  hardly 
know  me,  do  you?  What  would  my  Aunt  Sophy 
say  if  she  could  hear  me?  .  .  .  No,  I  know 
what  I  said  is  absurd,  from  any  reasonable  point 
of  view.  And  I  am  reasonable,  you  know.  And 
so  I  admit  that  I'm  glad  I  married  an  attractive 
man,  and  that  it's  necessary  other  women  should 
be  more  or  less  interested  in  him,  and  he  in 
them.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  jealous  idiot.  I 
want  you  to  be  perfectly  free.  I  like  you  partly 
because  you  know  the  world — it  amuses  me — 
your  experience.  I  don't  mind  your  peccadil- 
loes one  bit.  .  .  ."  Again  she  stopped  for  a 
moment. 

"  I  know  you  don't,"  said  Basil. 

"  Wait  a  bit — do  you?  Of  course  you  prefer  to 
think  I  don't,  and  /  prefer  to  think  I  don't — so 
you  bring  your  arguments  to  bear  on  my  reason, 


THEBOND  97 

and  I  bring  my  reason  to  bear  on  your  argu- 
ments, and  we  agree,  and  are  as  jolly  as  possible. 
.  .  .  But  there's  another  person  in  me  that's 
quite  different.  You  are  responsible  for  that 
person — she  never  existed  till  you  insisted  that 
she  should  be — and  she  makes  me  very  uncom- 
fortable. She's  responsible  for  my  moods  and 
silly  jealousies  of  women  that  I  know  you  don't 
care  for.  I  am  rational,  but  she  is  blind  instinct. 
I  know  you  belong  to  me,  but  she  doubts  it.  I 
believe  that  even  if  another  woman  had  a  physi- 
cal attraction  for  you,  it  wouldn't  touch  your 
feeling  for  me — but  she  would  go  wild  at  the 
thought  of  it.  So  look  out  for  her.  /  am  rea- 
sonable, as  I  said,  but  she " 

"  What  an  imagination  you  have !  "  laughed 
Basil,  and  he  kissed  her  wrist.  "  Are  you  trying 
to  make  me  believe  that  there's  primeval  passion 
in  you?  I  know  better.  You're  the  most  charm- 
ing creature  in  the  world,  one  of  the  most  intel- 
ligent, and  deliciously  pretty,  and  thoroughly 
civilised.  I  don't  believe  for  a  minute  in  this 
other  person  you  describe.  You  will  dramatise 
everything !  You  don't  care  enough  about  me  to 
be  jealous,  even  with  good  reason.  I  only  wish 
you  did." 

"  All  right,"  said  Teresa  composedly.  "  Give 
me  a  cigarette.  What  a  heavenly  day !  What  a 
delightful  world!  I  love  you,  Basil.  I  do  think 
I'm  one  of  the  luckiest  people  alive." 


IX 

fTlHEY  got  back  to  the  city  barely  in  time  to 
•*•  dress  for  dinner.  Basil  dressed  in  twenty 
minutes,  and  then  came  into  Teresa's  room, 
handsome  and  smart,  with  his  hat  and  coat  on, 
and  his  watch  in  his  hand.  She  was  doing  her 
hair ;  and  it  did  not  suit  her,  and  had  to  be  done 
over  again. 

"We  ought  to  start  in  eight  minutes,"  said 
Basil. 

"All  right.  Go  away  now,  that's  a  good  boy, 
and  don't  bother,"  said  Teresa  easily. 

Ten  minutes  passed  and  he  returned.  Teresa 
had  just  finished  doing  her  hair.  This  time  it 
suited  her. 

"  Time  to  start,"  said  Basil  with  a  shade  of 
vexation. 

"  Do  go  away !  I'll  be  ready  in  three  minutes, 
if  you  leave  me  alone,"  said  Teresa  sharply. 
"  There's  no  use  in  being  so  beastly  prompt.  No- 
body is." 

"  You  know  I  hate  being  late,"  said  Basil 
shortly,  and  went  out. 

Teresa  had  a  new  dress,  blue  and  silver,  which 
she  had  not  even  tried  on.  The  belt  was  too 
loose,  and  had  to  be  taken  in  hastily,  and  the 

98 


THEBOND  99 

tulle  about  the  d£colletage  had  to  be  adjusted. 
She  rang  for  Mary  to  hook  the  dress,  and  Basil 
came  and  glowered  in  the  doorway. 

"  You  do  fidget  me  so,"  snapped  Teresa. 
"Well,  why  in  thunder  can't  you  get  ready, 
on  time?  You  drive  me  wild!  " 
"  That's  right — spoil  my  evening." 
"  You  spoil  mine.  I  hate  to  go  out  with  you." 
Teresa  did  not  reply,  but  surveyed  herself  in 
the  mirror.  The  perception  that  she  was  looking 
extremely  well  helped  to  calm  her.  She  put  on 
her  gloves  deliberately,  slipped  into  her  loose 
white  coat,  and  swept  out  past  Basil,  who  was 
blocking  up  the  narrow  hall.  A  cab  was  waiting 
for  them  below,  and  Teresa  half  expected  that 
Basil  would  say  something  about  extravagance; 
they  had  had  cabs  three  times  this  week.  But 
he  sat  silent  in  his  corner,  and  she  in  hers,  watch- 
ing the  street  lights  spin  past.  The  Blackleys 
lived  uptown,  and  they  had  a  drive  of  twenty 
minutes,  and  they  were  twenty  minutes  late. 
The  other  guests  were  assembled  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  tiny  house,  squeezed  in  between  two 
taller  houses,  which  Alice  Blackley  had  deco- 
rated according  to  her  own  aesthetic  ideas,  and 
entirely  without  regard  to  her  husband's.  One 
of  Alice's  present  fads  was  a  sparing  allowance 
of  light.  The  drawing-room  was  lit  only  by 
the  fire  and  a  few  scattered  candles.  In  the 
gloom  Teresa  could  hardly  make  out  who  were 


100  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

the  other  people.  Alice  received  her  coldly.  She 
was  a  tall,  blonde  woman,  with  a  very  pretty 
figure,  and  large,  deer-like,  rather  vacant  eyes. 
Dinner  was  instantly  announced  by  the  Japa- 
nese butler.  Teresa  was  taken  in  by  a  man  she 
liked — a  young  architect  with  a  passion  for  phi- 
losophy. 

She  sat  at  the  left  of  the  host,  a  man  of 
middle  age,  who  liked  to  be  jolly,  but  was  usu- 
ally handicapped.  Opposite  her  was  a  woman 
of  fifty,  with  the  hard  face  of  the  society  hack,  a 
high  collar  of  pearls  and  diamonds,  a  very  low- 
cut  gown,  and  an  air  of  not  knowing  exactly 
where  she  found  herself.  Alice  had  this  lady's 
husband  at  her  right,  and  Basil  at  her  left.  Basil 
had  taken  in  Mary  Addams.  Then  there  were 
two  extra  men,  for  Alice  believed  in  a  preponder- 
ance of  the  male  element.  The  one  opposite,  next 
Mary  Addams,  Teresa  knew  she  had  seen  some- 
where; she  gave  him  a  bow  and  smile,  and  then 
recollected  him — he  was  the  Englishman  whom 
Basil  had  brought  home  to  that  unlucky  dinner. 
On  her  own  side  of  the  table,  beyond  Page,  the 
architect,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  individual 
in  an  unstarched  shirt-front  and  a  large  tie. 

Talk  burst  out  at  once.  The  dining-room  was 
gloomy — all  done  in  peacock-blue,  with  no  lights 
except  those  on  the  table,  and  two  or  three  dull 
silver  electric  globes  in  the  ceiling. 

"It's  Alice's  idea  of  a  summer  night,"  mur- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  101 

mured  Page  to  Teresa.  "  Tell  me  what's  the 
idea  of  that  dress  she's  got  on." 

It  was  a  dress  of  black  velvet,  and  over  it  Alice 
wore  a  robe  of  Chinese  embroidery  of  gold  and 
purple. 

"  That  dress  means,"  said  Teresa  in  the  same 
tone,  "  that  this  is  an  artistic  dinner.  It  is  not 
a  formal  dinner,  nor  a  commonplace  society 
affair,  but  a  gathering  of  intellectual  people. 
You  and  I  and  Basil  are  artistic,  you  know,  Mary 
Addams  has  written  poems,  and  I  imagine  this 
has  been  got  up  to  amuse  the  guests  of  honour, 
for  certainly  they  are  not  artistic.  As  for  the 
other  two,  you  must  tell  me  who  they  are." 

"  Alice  said  there  was  to  be  an  African  lion, 
and  I  imagine  that's  he,  over  there.  He  doesn't 
look  very  fierce,  does  he?  " 

"  I  wish  I  knew  his  name.  Basil  brought  him 
to  dinner  unexpectedly  one  day  last  week.  There 
was  nothing  to  eat,  and  my  aunt  talked  Woman 
Suffrage  to  us.  I  hoped  I  should  never  see 
him  again,  but  I  can  see  from  his  look  that 
he  remembers  that  steak.  Basil  said  he  was 
something  in  the  East.  Perhaps  that  accounts 
for  his  curious  colour.  Where  did  Alice  find 
him?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She  picks  up  all  sorts  of  peo- 
ple abroad.  Have  you  noticed  this  person  on  my 
left?" 

"  .Vaguely.    From  the  coast  of  Bohemia?  " 


102  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Yes,  shipwrecked.  A  starving  genius  whom 
Alice  has  rescued.  He  writes  prose  poems,  and 
recites  them  to  music  of  his  own,  and  he  has 
written  a  whole  series  of  dances  for  Alice.  You'll 
see  if  we  don't  catch  it  after  dinner ! " 

"And  she  is  introducing  him  to  the  Kerrs! 
Now  you  see  why  we're  here." 

"  I  forgive  him  for  existing.  I  pardon  him 
for  sitting  next  to  me.  I  remit  to  him  even  the 
sins  he's  going  to  commit  after  dinner.  I  haven't 
seen  you  for  months." 

"  No,  you're  too  busy  building  neo-Kenaissance 
houses  for  the  newly  rich.  How's  Alice's  villa 
getting  on?" 

"  Hush !  She  wants  a  waterfall  in  the  middle 
of  it." 

"  Well,  you  must  get  her  one.  I  can't  see  why 
you  should  deny  her  a  trifle  like  that." 

At  this  point,  Mrs.  Kerr  having  found  some- 
thing to  say  to  the  Englishman,  Mr.  Blackley 
turned  to  Teresa. 

"Well,  how  is  Art? "  he  enquired. 

"  You  ought  to  know.  You  live  in  the  very 
hot-bed  of  it,"  said  Teresa.  "  You  raise  it  under 
glass." 

He  cast  a  glance  about  the  room,  and  lowered 
his  voice,  taking  Page  into  the  talk  by  a  look. 

"  Say,  honestly,  how  d'ye  like  the  house?  I 
call  it  fierce — simply  fierce.  Of  course,  you 
know  it's  her  house — a  woman  ought  to  have 


T  H  E    B  O  N  D  103 

her  house  as  she  likes  it,  for  a  man  can  always 
get  out  of  it,  you  see.  But,  confound  it,  it  does 
give  me  the  blues.  To  go  prowling  round  in  this 
kind  of  a  dim,  religious  light,  breaking  your 
shins  against  chairs  and  marble  statues  and 
things — and  eating  your  food  in  a  sort  of  Got- 
terdammmerung — that  word  expresses  my  feel- 
ings— why,  you  might  as  well  be  at  a  table- 
d'hote,  for  all  you  know  what  you're  eating.  And 
then,  there  ain't  a  comfortable  chair  in  the  place 
— except  on  my  floor.  I  say,  you  two  come  up 
there  after  dinner,  and  I'll  show  you  what's  my 
idea  of  a  room.  I  had  to  fight  for  that  floor,  too, 
I  can  tell  you!  Alice  wanted  to  hang  my  bed- 
room with  sea-green  brocade  and  marquetry 
furniture.  You  can  easily  slip  out,  you  know, 
for  the  drawing-rooin'll  be  pitch  dark,  except  a 
circle  of  light  where  the  fellow  recites,  and  per- 
haps we  could  get  Basil  and  Mary,  too." 

"  I  like  that !  Do  you  think  you  could  steal 
away  the  audience  and  Alice  not  notice?  Be- 
sides, I  want  to  hear  this  wonderful  person." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  don't !  Really,  you  don't.  D'you 
know  why  all  the  lights  are  turned  out  when  he 
recites?  Because  he's  so  terribly  indecent  that 
people  are  ashamed  to  look  each  other  in  the 
face.  He  says  it's  because  genius  won't  flow  if 
he  has  to  look  at  his  audience,  but  I  know  better. 
I  go  away  when  he  begins — I  can't  stand  him, 
'pon  my  word.  I'm  a  modest  man.  I  say,  hang 


104  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Art  if  it's  got  to  be  mixed  up  with  indecency. 
What's  your  opinion,  Teresa?" 

"  You  are  perfectly  right.  I  shall  put  proper 
clothes  on  all  the  figures  on  that  punch-bowl  I'm 
making  for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  say !  You  know  I  don't  mean  that  sort 
of  thing!  I'm  not  a  prig.  But — well,  you  wait 
till  you  hear  him." 

Teresa  thought  that  the  poet  must  certainly 
have  heard  some  of  these  remarks,  but  he  seemed 
absorbed  in  explaining  to  Alice  and  to  Mr.  Kerr, 
a  gentleman  of  uncertain  age  and  inexpressive 
countenance,  something  which  required  a  great 
many  gestures  of  unmanicured  hands.  She  saw 
that  Basil  was  having  a  good  time  with  Mary 
Addams ;  he  was  laughing  a  good  deal,  drinking 
a  good  deal  of  excellent  Burgundy;  his  eyes  had 
the  attentive  and  warm  look  called  out  by  any 
woman  he  liked.  There  was  more  life  and 
vigour  in  his  handsome  head  than  in  all  the 
others  combined.  Beside  him  Horace  Blackley 
looked  fat  and  commonplace,  Page  looked  con- 
ventional, Mr.  Kerr  pallid  and  used,  the  poet 
greasy  and  theatrical,  and  the  Englishman 
looked  like  a  grave  phantom — a  phantom  of  dis- 
tinction. Teresa  could  hardly  believe  that  he 
was  not  an  Eastern — she  could  imagine  him 
with  the  white  burnoose,  the  hood  over  his  head, 
a  typical  Arab.  She  said  as  much  to  Page. 

"Ah,  you're  right — I  believe  there  is  a  drop 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  105 

of  black  blood  somewhere  in  him — Egyptian  or 
something — and  part  of  his  success  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  he  can  pass  as  a  native  among  the 
Arabs — like  Burton,  you  know.  He's  governor 
of  some  district  down  in  the  desert.  Good-look- 
ing chap." 

"  Tell  me  his  name,"  said  Teresa. 

"  Crayven — that's  all  I  know  of  it." 

Teresa  judged  his  age  to  be  about  thirty-five, 
though  in  expression  he  looked  older — looked, 
in  fact,  any  age.  His  face,  with  all  the  fineness 
and  delicacy  of  its  lines,  was  strong.  His  fore- 
head and  eyes  showed  intellectual  force ;  his  eyes 
were  frank  and  simple,  it  seemed  to  Teresa,  on 
this  second  view,  and  his  mouth  gentle.  He  in- 
terested Teresa,  partly  because  of  the  extreme 
quiet  and  repose  of  his  manner.  Whether  he  was 
talking  to  Mrs.  Kerr  or  to  Mary  Addams,  whom 
he  seemed  to  find  attractive,  or  listening,  which 
he  seemed  to  prefer,  he  suggested  somehow  a 
world  different  from  this.  Teresa's  imagination 
was  stirred  by  the  few  facts  she  had  heard  about 
him.  A  simpler,  a  less  nervous  life,  more  primi- 
tive and  harsher  externals,  more  space  and  free- 
dom, might  be  his  proper  setting.  She  fancied 
she  saw  in  his  face,  in  spite  of  its  gentleness,  the 
habit  of  command.  His  grey-brown  colour  and 
the  lines  about  his  eyes  made  her  think  of  the 
glare  of  sun  on  the  desert. 

Dinner  was  nearly  over  when  for  the  first  time 


106  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

the  conversation  became  more  general.  Basil, 
Mary  Addams,  Page,  and  the  poet  discussed  the 
origin  of  Art.  The  poet  maintained  with  vigour 
that  all  that  was  good  in  nature  was  due  directly 
to  art,  that  art  came  out  of  the  vague,  a  creative 
force,  and  lifted  nature  from  mere  bestiality  into 
the  light  of  civilisation.  Basil  maintained  the 
superior  interest  of  nature  and  the  imitative 
character  of  art,  and  the  other  two  followed  his 
lead.  Soon  the  discussion  ascended  to  meta- 
physical heights,  and  dealt  with  the  philosophy 
of  aesthetics.  Mary  dropped  out,  with  a  tolerant 
smile.  Alice  threw  in  a  vague,  irrelevant  ques- 
tion now  and  then,  and  looked  pleased ;  this  was 
something  really  intellectual.  Mrs.  Kerr  lis- 
tened, and  blinked  with  a  faintly  astonished  air; 
Mr.  Kerr  and  the  host  devoted  themselves  to 
game  and  currant  jelly.  The  poet  showed  unex- 
pected ability  in  dialectic;  Basil  and  Page,  who 
considered  themselves  philosophers,  forgot  the 
rest  of  the  company.  Crayven  was  silent,  and 
turned  his  champagne-glass  round  and  round 
with  an  abstracted  look;  he  did  not  drink  the 
champagne. 

Teresa,  rather  tired  of  being  talked  across 
by  Page  and  the  poet,  was  studying  Crayven's 
grave  face,  when,  for  the  third  time  that  even- 
ing, he  interrupted  her  scrutiny  by  meeting  it 
suddenly,  with  eyes  in  which  now  lurked  a 
smile  of  irony  and  amusement.  She  smiled,  too, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  107 

and  felt  with  interest  that  philosophy  probably 
bored  him  as  much  as  it  did  her.  He  was  a  man 
of  action.  Nearly  all  the  men  she  knew  were 
men  of  talk. 

She  felt  irritated  with  Alice  when  the  men 
were  left  in  the  dining-room  and  the  women 
rustled  up  stairs  together;  she  saw  no  present 
reason  for  this  arrangement.  Dress  was  the 
topic  of  discussion,  and  over  their  coffee  and 
cigarettes  Mrs.  Kerr  and  Alice  talked  eagerly 
about  a  new  dressmaker,  one  of  their  acquaint- 
ances turned  to  business,  who  was  more  expen- 
sive than  anything  in  Paris,  and  promised  to  be 
the  rage.  For  the  first  time  that  evening  a  real 
interest  lighted  Alice's  large  eyes;  she  looked, 
as  she  rapturously  described  a  toilette  of  purple 
velvet,  almost  like  a  sentient  being.  Teresa  and 
Mary  Addams  exchanged  an  expressive  glance, 
and  Teresa  was  about  to  move  her  chair  nearer 
to  Mary's,  with  a  view  to  escaping  further  bore- 
dom, when  Crayven  walked  into  the  room  alone. 

"Will  you  send  me  back,  please,  if  you  don't 
want  me?  "  he  said  to  Alice  with  a  deprecating 
smile. 

"  Of  course,  we  want  you — we're  highly  flat- 
tered," she  assured  him  graciously,  but  looking 
a  little  put  out. 

He  sat  down  by  Teresa,  and  offered  her  a 
cigarette  from  his  own  case.  Alice  gave  him  a 
cup  of  coffee. 


108  THE     BOND 

"  Your  own,  and  made  according  to  direc- 
tions," she  said. 

He  tasted  it,  smiled,  shook  his  head,  and  put 
it  down. 

"  It  tastes  like  the  ordinary  bean  of  com- 
merce," he  said.  "You  won't  taste  real  coffee 
till  you  come  to  Arabia." 

"  I  shall  come  next  year,"  Alice  assured  him. 
"  It  will  be  the  most  amusing  thing  I  ever  did. 
Four  days  on  a  camel,  straight  into  the  desert — 
and  an  old  fort  to  lire  in,  with  a  powder-maga- 
zine under  the  drawing-room !  " 

"  We  don't  call  it  a  drawing-room,"  said  Cray- 
ven  gravely.  "  And  you  won't  be  able  to  bring 
many  boxes,  you  know." 

"  I  shall  come  wTith  one  saddlebag,  and  then 
I  shall  dress  like  a  native  woman  while  I'm 
there,"  said  Alice  with  interest. 

"  Void  que  devant  lui  s'arreta  une  femme  en- 
veloppee  de  son  ample  voile  en  etoffe  de  Mous- 
soul,  en  sole  parsemee  de  paillettes  d'or  et 
doublees  de  brocart.  Elle  souleva  un  pen  son 
petit  voile  de  visage,  et,  d'en  dessous,  alors,  ap- 
parurent  des  yeux  noirs  avec  de  longs  cils  et 
quelles  paupieres!"  murmured  Teresa. 

"  Ah,  what's  that?  "  asked  Crayven,  looking  at 
her  intently. 

"  The  Thousand  and  One  Nights." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  remember  Burton.  But  those  are 
town  Arabs,  you  know — a  very  different  thing 


THE     BOND  100 

from  the  Bedouins.  You  won't  find  any  veils  of 
brocade  in  my  part  of  the  desert !  " 

"  There  are  some  Bedouin  stories,  too — some 
of  the  time  of  the  Prophet." 

"  I'd  forgotten  that.  I'd  like  to  see  those — 
must  look  it  up  again." 

He  addressed  himself  particularly  to  Teresa, 
and  now,  smoking  silently,  seemed  to  expect  her 
to  say  something  more. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  your  play  the  other  night?  " 
she  asked  idly. 

"  Oh — no.  I  hate  the  theatre.  I  didn't  come 
to  America  to  go  to  the  theatre." 

"What  did  you  come  for,  then?"  she  en- 
quired. 

"  I  came  for  some  big  game  shooting.  I'm  go- 
ing on  to  the  Rocky  Mountains  next  Wednesday. 
I've  got  two  months  clear  to  spend  in  the  open." 

"  But  don't  you  live  in  the  open — down 
there? "  Teresa's  ideas  of  Eastern  geography 
were  vague. 

"  It's  rather  a  different  thing !  .  .  .  When 
I  get  out  of  the  desert  I  like  to  change — though 
I  always  want  to  get  back  there.  I  make  for  the 
mountains  when  I  do  go  away." 

"And  you've  wasted  ten  whole  days  or  more 
in  New  York ! " 

"  Yes — rather  wasted.  .  .  .  May  I  come 
and  see  you  before  I  go — say  to-morrow  after- 
noon? " 


110  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

She  nodded,  with  some  amusement.  In  a  few 
moments  the  other  men  came  in — Page  and  Basil 
last,  with  their  arms  on  one  another's  shoulders, 
and  still  mumbling  the  remnants  of  their  argu- 
ment. But  now  it  was  the  poet's  hour.  The  can- 
dles were  collected  about  the  piano;  and  while 
the  audience  sat  in  darkness,  the  poet,  throwing 
back  his  head  in  the  attitude  of  Beata  Beatrix, 
received  what  light  there  was  on  his  pale  coun- 
tenance and  half-closed  eyes;  and,  touching  the 
keys  lightly,  he  chanted  a  mysterious  poem  on 
Slumber.  Horace  Blackley  had  slipped  out 
when  the  piano  began ;  and  through  the  curtains 
lie  beckoned  appealingly  to  Teresa  and  to  Page, 
who  sat  near  her.  But  he  was  obliged  to  stay 
alone.  Teresa  became  slightly  interested  in  the 
poem.  It  was  indecent,  but  it  was  not  common- 
place. When  its  last  sigh  had  died  away,  with- 
out waiting  for  comment,  the  poet  struck  several 
far-reaching  chords,  and  glanced  at  Alice.  She 
rose  and  came  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  circle  of 
candle-light.  The  poet  played  some  unheard-of 
music,  and  Alice  danced,  or  rather  posed,  lifting 
and  swaying  her  arms,  which  emerged  bare  from 
the  falling  sleeves  of  the  gold  robe.  The  purpose 
of  the  robe  now  became  apparent.  Her  face  in 
shadow  was  barely  seen,  and  it  was  at  all  times 
her  least  interesting  point;  but  her  beautiful 
figure,  straight  and  lithe  of  line,  expressed  itself 
marvellously  under  the  shimmer  of  the  embroid- 


THE     BOND  111 

ery.  The  spectators  were  one  and  all  intent. 
Teresa  glanced  round,  and  saw  eyes  gleaming 
with  sudden  wakefulness.  Even  Mr.  Kerr  was 
awake.  Page  leaned  forward. 

"  By  Jove,  you  know,  they  really  have  struck 
something — they  really  have !  "  he  whispered,  his 
gaze  on  the  swaying  figure.  Crayven  said 
nothing,  but  she  thought  she  saw  a  faint  smile 
on  his  lips.  Basil  sat  nearest  to  the  dancer ;  his 
face  was  more  lit  up.  It  was  animated  by  the 
wine  he  had  drunk,  by  energetic  talk;  and  now 
by  a  decided  feeling  for  the  plastic  figure  before 
him.  Teresa  watched  him,  forgetting  the  others. 


X 

T  N  the  carriage,  going  home,  Basil — entirely 
•1  forgetting  that  his  evening  had  been  spoiled — 
put  his  arm  about  his  wife,  and  kissed  her  with 
a  warmth  which  she  discouraged  mildly. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  it?  "  she  asked. 

"Oh,  fairly.  I  liked  the  food — and  the 
wine " 

"And  Mary." 

"  I  always  like  Mary.  She's  uncommonly 
amusing." 

"  She's  more  so  since  she  got  rid  of  Jack." 

"  Perhaps  she  isn't  rid  of  him.  Remember 
what  we  saw  in  the  restaurant.  Perhaps  she 
likes  him  as  a  lover,  though  she  didn't  as  a  hus- 
band—eh?" 

"  You're  wicked.  So  is  she,  rather.  That's 
why  you  like  her.  I  thought  you  seemed  inter- 
ested in  Alice." 

"  Alice  is  interesting  so  long  as  she  doesn't 
talk.  She  did  that  dance,  or  whatever  you  call 
it,  well.  That's  the  latest  fad,  I  suppose.  I'd 
like  to  paint  her  in  that  gold  thing." 

"  Do — she'd  be  charmed.  So  long  as  some- 
one will  look  at  her  she's  happy." 

"You're  a  little  waspish,  ain't  you?"  said 
Basil  with  amusement  and  another  kiss. 

112 


THE     BOND  113 

"  I  was  bored." 

"  I  thought  you  were  having  a  good  time  with 
Page." 

"  He's  amusing,  but  not  interesting.  But  Alice 
always  puts  the  most  interesting  man  where  I 
can't  talk  to  him." 

"  Oh,  does  she?  Who  was  the  interesting  man 
to-night — the  poet?  " 

"  Poet !    The  rude  Englishman,  of  course." 

"  Kude,  was  he?  I  thought  he  was  gallant. 
He  bolted  off  after  you  in  no  time." 

"  He  was  bored  by  your  silly  metaphysics. 
I  kept  thinking  all  the  time  you  and  Page 
were  arguing,  about  Goethe's  picture  of  the  meta- 
physician— an  ass  led  round  by  the  nose  in  the 
midst  of  a  barren  plot  of  ground,  while  all  round 
him  are  green  fields  that  he  never  sees ! " 

"  You  flatter  us.  But  where  were  the  green 
fields  to-night?  Is  Crayven  a  green  field?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  But  something  out-of-doors — 
natural  and  primitive." 

"  Hello,  you've  fallen  in  love  with  him !  Any 
man  is  natural  and  primitive.  The  difficulty  is 
to  be  anything  else.  But  I  can  tell  you,  Crayven 
isn't  primitive — he's  only  limited." 

"  I  thought  you  liked  him." 

"  No,  not  much.    He's  rather  dry." 

"  He  hasn't  a  free-flowing  temperament,  and 
doesn't  like  either  whisky  or  philosophy — is  that 
what  you  mean?  " 


114  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  You're  satirical.  You  arc  in  love  with  him, 
aren't  you?  " 

"  He's  coming  to  see  me  to-morrow.  Then  I 
shall  decide  whether  I  am  or  not." 

"  Better  hurry  a  bit,  for  he's  off  to  the  wilds 
in  a  few  days,  to  shoot  something.  Who  was  it 
said  that  if  an  Englishman  saw  an  angel  his  first 
impulse  would  be  to  shoot  it?" 

"And  yours  would  be  to  give  it  a  drink,  and 
get  it  to  pose.-  .  .  .  Basil,  you  don't  tell  me 
everything,  do  you?  " 

"  Everything — you  know  I  do.  Why  do  you 
say  that?" 

"  Because — I  had  an  idea  to-night,  watching 
you.  You  know  you  told  me  about — a  person — 
before  we  were  married — a  married  woman. 
.  .  .  Was  it  Mary? " 

"  No !  What  an  idea — why  on  earth ?  " 

"  You  wouldn't  tell  me  if  it  was  Mary,  would 
you?  " 

"  No,  I  wouldn't.  But  it  wasn't.  I've  told 
you,  it  wasn't  anyone  you  know." 

"  Yes,  but  if  it  were  somebody  I  knew,  you'd 
lie  about  it,  wouldn't  you?  " 

"  I  don't  lie  to  you,  Teresa." 

"You  would,  in  such  a  case.  You  wouldn't 
betray  the  other  woman.  ...  So  how  can  I 
know  you  aren't  lying  now?  " 

Basil  gave  an  exasperated  groan. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  115 

"  I  thought  we'd  settled  all  that !  What  earthly 
difference  does  it  make  to  you,  Teresa 

"Oh,  well,  it  does,  that's  all.  I  hate  that 
woman.  You  know  you  did  love  her." 

"  I  didn't,  and  she  didn't  love  me.  I  liked  her 
— she  was  clever  and  amusing,  and  she  was  un« 
happy  with  her  husband " 

Teresa  swayed  into  her  corner  of  the  carriage 
and  shut  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  talk  about  such  things,  dearest,"  im- 
plored Basil  with  a  certain  sad  humility. 
"  There's  nothing  that  really  matters  to  us,  you 
know " 

"  There's  nothing  perfect  in  this  world,"  said 
Teresa,  in  a  strange,  quiet  voice.  "  Not  even 
our — not  even  love." 

"  Dearest ! "  he  cried,  and  leaned  toward  her 
— but  she  repelled  him  gently. 

They  were  silent  for  the  few  minutes  that  re- 
mained of  their  drive.  .  .  . 

In  the  little  drawing-room  the  windows  were 
open,  and  the  curtains  swayed  in  a  warm  breeze. 
Teresa  took  off  her  coat,  and  lay  down  in  the 
long  chair,  and  Basil  walked  about  the  room, 
smoking  nervously. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  to  bed — aren't  you 
tired?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  I'm  not  sleepy,"  she  answered  absently. 
Her  face,  her  half -closed  eyes,  were  sad;  and  she 


116  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

had  the  cold  aloof  look  that  Basil  dreaded.  He 
came  presently,  and  sat  on  the  floor  at  her  side, 
laying  his  head  against  her  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  hate  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sometimes  I  hate  all  men." 
I   "  Oh,  Teresa,  you  don't.    That  sounds  like  your 
aunt." 

"  Perhaps  my  aunt  is  right.  I  hate  self-in- 
,'  dulgent,  sensual,  self-satisfied  men.  I  hate  com- 
1  fortable  men — and  you  all  try  to  be  as  much 
I  that  as  you  can." 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  be  as  comfortable  as  we 
can — if  it  hurts  nobody  else?  I  don't  under- 
stand you.  I  thought  you  believed  in  enjoying 
life  in  all  possible  ways.  You " 

"No,  it's  disgusting!  Disgusting  to  have  ap- 
petites, and  coddle  them  as  tenderly  as  if  they 
were  your  children !  It  makes  a  man  a  ridiculous 
spectacle.  I  wish  I  knew  one  man  who  didn't 
care  for  physical  pleasures — I  wish  I  knew  a 
good  priest,  or  some  man  who  was  ascetic  by 
choice,  who  lived  hard,  and  worked  hard — 
who  had  something  besides  himself  to  think 
about." 

Basil  raised  his  head,  and  looked  at  her  in 
surprise.  After  a  moment  he  said : 

"  There  are  plenty  of  men  who  live  hard,  and 
work  hard — but  generally  because  they  must — 
in  which  case  it's  no  virtue.  As  for  the  few  who 
do  it  when  they  needn't,  it's  because  they  have 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  117 

some  idea  or  some  cause  that  possesses  them — 
or  some  person— 

"  Yes,  if  I  only  knew  some  one  with  a  cause- 
some  prophet  or  other " 

"  All  prophets  are  very  sensual.  Look  at  Ma- 
homet— Brigham  Young " 

"Oh,  be  quiet!" 

"  But  it's  true !  "  said  Basil,  kissing  her  hand 
and  laughing.  "  So  don't  run  off  after  the  first 
prophet  you  see.  There  are  lots  of  them.  But 
all  of  them,  and  all  the  great  poets  and  philoso- 
phers of  the  world " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I've  heard  all  that.  Spiritual  life, 
intellectual  life,  is  only  another  form  of  self-in- 
dulgence. I'm  tired  of  you." 

"  You  are  tired,  dearest.  Go  to  bed,  won't 
you?  " 

"No,  I  won't.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  wish 
you  had  something  of  that  in  you,  Basil.  .  .  ." 

"  Something  of  what,  dearest  one?  " 

"  Oh,  something  of — the  mystic,  the  prophet ! 
.  .  .  You  are  all  so  clear,  so  defined,  so — 
worldly.  Not  worldly  in  a  small  sense,  but 
worldly  all  the  same.  But  ...  if  you  were 
a  prophet,  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  be  as  nice  to 
live  with  as  you  are  now,  perhaps." 

"No — you're  not  ascetic,  my  girl!  You 
wouldn't  want  to  tread  the  thorny  path  of  self- 
mortification,  prophet  or  no  prophet." 

"Who  knows?" 


118  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"I  know!  If  there  ever  was  a  self-indulgent 
person,  it's  you!  What's  got  into  you  this  even- 
ing, Teresa?  You  talk  a  little  bit  like  Mrs. 
Perry — and  you're  not  a  bit  like  her " 

"  I  should  hope  not,"  said  Teresa  with  con- 
tempt. 

She  drew  her  hand  away  from  Basil,  in  sud- 
den irritation. 

"  How  nasty  of  you  to  say  that !  Go  away, 
and  leave  me  alone,  will  you?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  be  cross,  dearest,  I  didn't 
mean " 

Teresa  crossed  her  hands  under  her  head  and 
closed  her  eyes  wearily.  After  a  moment  Basil 
got  up  and  touched  the  bell.  Its  sharp  trill  could 
be  heard  distinctly  from  the  region  of  the 
kitchen. 

"  What  do  you  want?    It's  Mary's  night  out." 

"  I  want  some  whisky  and  water.  It  seems 
to  me  it's  always  Mary's  night  out.  Does  she 
stay  out  all  night?  " 

"  I  think  she  does.    She  has  a  key." 

"  I  suppose  she  goes  on  a  bat,  then." 

"  Very  likely.  Why  shouldn't  she,  poor  thing, 
messing  over  horrid  pots  and  pans  all  the  week. 
I  hope  she  does.  She  works  hard  enough  for  it — • 
and  she  supports  her  family  out  of  us,  most  ad- 
mirably." 

"  She  does — on  her  wages?  " 

"  Yes — and  incidentals." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  111) 

"  Incidentals?  Do  you  mean  slie  steals  from 
us?" 

"  Of  course  she  does.  A  little  sugar  here,  a 
little  tea  there,  a  half-pound  of  chops — to  cheer 
up  her  poor  old  mother." 

"Well,  look  here,  I  didn't  know  that.  You 
oughtn't  to  let  her  do  it !  " 

"  Why  not?  We  can  afford  it.  Property  is 
theft  anyhow.  I'll  get  you  your  whisky — though 
really  you've  had  enough." 

Teresa  went  quickly  out  of  the  room,  to  avoid 
discussion,  and  brought  back  the  decanters  and 
two  glasses. 

"  I'll  take  a  little,  too,  just  to  make  you 
happy,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Well,  look  here,  about  Mary " 

"  Oh,  bother  Mary.  Let's  talk  about  ourselves. 
I  forgive  you  for  everything." 

"Do  you — honestly?"  He  was  won  instantly 
away  from  the  theme  of  Mary.  And  he  was 
used  to  Teresa's  jumps. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  really  blame  you,  you  know. 
I  think  you're  a  sweet,  dear  thing,  and  very  good 
to  me.  And  I  don't  want  you  different  at  all 
from  what  you  are.  Only  don't  make  me  jeal- 
ous." 

"  Jealous — you !    It  isn't  in  you." 

"  Oh,  isn't  it !  Don't  try  it,  that's  all.  I  don't 
mind  other  women  liking  you — only  don't  you 
like  them!" 


120  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  I  couldn't.  You're  just  the  one  and  only. 
You  combine  everything  I  like — if  only  you 
liked  me  a  little  more ! " 

"  I  love  you.  .  .  .  Did  I  look  pretty  to- 
night? " 

"  Charming,  dearest.  That  dress  is  very  nice 
— is  it  new?  " 

"  Yes— Nina  sent  it  to  me  from  Rome.  It  cost 
a  pretty  penny !  " 

"  You  are  a  nice  person  to  talk  about  self-in- 
dulgence! When  did  you  deny  yourself  any- 
thing you  wanted?" 

"  Never,  if  I  could  get  it.  But  I  admire  it  in 
other  people." 

"  I  daresay !  " 

"  It  pleases  my  aesthetic  sense.  It  has  beauty 
in  it.  Most  people  are  so  smug.  I  like  hungry 
people." 

"  That's  the  reason  you  liked  me,  then — be- 
cause I  was  starving  for  you." 

She  kissed  him  tenderly. 

"  Not  for  me,  but  for  something  beautiful  that 
you  mistook  me  for !  I'm  glad  you  mistook  me." 

"  I  didn't — I  just  took  you." 

She  smiled.  All  the  weariness  was  gone  now 
from  her  look.  She  looked  young  and  joyous. 
She  went  to  a  mirror  and  admired  herself  in 
the  blue  and  silver  dress. 

"Yes,  I  am  pretty,"  she  said  confidingly.  "  I 
like  the  dress — it  makes  my  eyes  look  bluer.  Can 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  121 

you  unhook  it,  do  you  think?  Because  if  not,  I 
shall  have  to  sleep  in  it." 

"  I  can  try,"  said  Basil,  manfully. 

"  Fraud !  As  if  you  hadn't  had  enough  prac- 
tice. .  .  . 

He  looked  into  the  mirror  over  her  shoulder. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  they  both  laughed  gaily. 


XI 

TERESA'S  life  was  full,  and,  on  the  whole, 
free  and  happy.  She  desired  nothing  more 
for  herself,  except  that  it  should  not  change. 
Her  occasional  clouded  moods  were  due,  if  not 
to  some  temporary  and  slight  disagreement  with 
Basil,  in  which  she  usually  by  insistence  got  the 
best  of  him,  then  to  a  vague  perception  of  forces 
within  and  without  that  menaced  her  happiness 
of  careless  youth  and  love.  She  saw  that  she 
herself  changed,  that  her  love  and  need  of  Basil 
deepened.  She  saw  that  he  changed — that  he  be- 
came more  tranquil  toward  her,  and  more  inter- 
ested in  the  play  of  life  outside  than  he  had  been 
during  his  year  of  absorption  in  her.  And  this 
shifting  of  the  balance  frightened  her.  If  she 
should  come  to  need  him  more  than  he  needed 
her,  it  wrould  destroy  their  first  relation,  in  which 
he  had  given  to  her  out  of  a  free  abundance  of 
life  and  joy,  and  she  to  him  calmly,  tenderly,  and 
with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  in  her  heart.  And 
this  change,  too,  would  destroy  her  own  poise, 
and  leave  her  at  the  mercy  of  chance  or  fate,  in 
a  dependence  on  Basil  which  she  obscurely 
dreaded  when  she  thought  of  it. 

The  tragedy  of  life  she  felt  all  about  her,  like 
the  great  humming  city;  only  so  far  it  had  not 

192 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  123 

touched  her  nearly.  Since  her  marriage,  the 
most  tragic  thing  in  her  world  had  been  Gerald 
Dallas.  Dallas  had  given  her  his  best — affection, 
admiration,  and  a  delicate  tact  and  sympathy 
for  her  moods  invariable,  except  on  the  rare  oc- 
casions— not  more  than  three — when  she  had 
seen  him  in  the  toils  of  his  slavery.  He  had  a 
feeling  for  Teresa  which  perhaps  a  more  re- 
spectable man  could  not  have  had.  Teresa  knew 
that  poor  Gerald  was  disreputable ;  that  he  lived 
with  a  ballet-dancer;  that  he  had  undoubtedly 
seen  his  only  good  days,  and  was  steadily  going 
down  hill.  He  would  end  perhaps  as  one  of 
those  beery,  dirty  old  men  that  haunt  the  edge 
of  the  city  streets,  wreckage  cast  off  by  the  whirl- 
ing machinery.  Teresa  had  not  remonstrated 
with  him  since  the  early  days  of  their  friendship. 
Once,  when  she  had  begged  Basil  to  try  to  stop 
him,  she  had  been  answered  in  the  words  of  Con- 
fucius :  "  Reprove  your  friend  once  and  twice, 
but  if  he  does  not  heed  you,  stop.  Do  not  dis- 
grace yourself."  And  she  had  come  to  feel  that 
Basil  was  right,  that  nothing  could  be  done. 
There  was  no  spring  of  regeneration  in  the  man. 
At  forty  he  had  lived  his  life,  and  all  but  burnt 
himself  out.  He  did  not  talk  about  himself  to 
Teresa;  and  it  was  one  of  his  charms  for  her. 
The  men  she  saw  most  of — mainly  artists  in  one 
way  or  another,  or  detached  philosophers — were 
all  bent,  first  on  amusing,  and  secondly  on  ana- 


THE     BOND 

lysing  themselves.  Many  of  them  had  reached 
the  age  when  the  second  mode  of  pleasure  out- 
weighs the  first.  They  experienced  only  in  or- 
der to  contemplate  their  experience  and  them- 
selves. Teresa  had  a  way  of  listening,  and  ask- 
ing intelligent  questions.  None  of  her  acquain- 
tances needed  much  coaxing.  Soon  or  late  all 
blossomed  into  anecdote,  narrative,  and  reflec- 
tions on  their  lives.  Some  were  clever  men.  But 
Teresa,  when  she  repeated  what  they  said  to 
Basil,  often  made  them.appear  irresistibly  comic ; 
and  Basil,  between  roars  of  laughter,  would  add 
details  discreetly  omitted  by  the  autobiographer. 
Teresa,  listening  to  these  foot-notes  with  droop- 
ing eyelids  and  contemptuous  lips,  said  some- 
times : 

"  I  could  never  fall  in  love  with  a  man  that 
you  knew  well !  " 

"  I  don't  do  it  on  purpose ! "  he  had  replied 
with  a  joyous  shout.  "  Only  I  like  to  tell  you 
things ! " 

It  was  Basil  who  had  told  Teresa  about  the 
ballet-dancer.  Gerald  never  talked  about  him- 
self or  his  affairs  to  her.  He  appeared  as  much 
bored  by  all  that  related  to  himself  as  he  was 
interested  in  all  that  concerned  her.  On  the  oc- 
casions when  he  buried  himself  in  obscurity,  she 
missed  him,  and  thought  much  about  him. 
•  «  .  •  • 

The  morning  after  Alice's  dinner,  word  came 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  125 

from  Gerald,  after  a  long  silence.  He  was  ill  in 
a  public  hospital,  and  asked  Basil  to  come  to 
him.  Basil  was  not  at  home;  Teresa  read  the 
note,  and,  as  she  wras  going  out,  took  it  herself 
to  the  studio.  She  found  Basil  hard  at  work  with 
a  model.  But  he  at  once  dismissed  the  girl, 
changed  his  coat,  and  departed,  promising  to 
come  back  in  an  hour  at  most  and  report  to 
Teresa.  .  .  . 

The  day  was  hot.  The  smell  of  paint  and  tur- 
pentine in  the  studio  was  stronger  than  the  now 
fading  lilacs.  The  room  looked  disorderly,  cum- 
bered by  a  sort  of  scaffolding  on  which  the  model 
had  been  posing,  and  by  various  draperies  flung 
on  chairs.  Teresa  looked  at  the  cartoon  which 
Basil  was  making  for  a  decorative  panel.  The 
model  came  out,  dressed,  and  writh  a  slight  salu- 
tation to  Teresa,  went  away.  She  was  a  tall  girl, 
with  an  ordinary  face,  and  rough  skin,  but  a 
pretty  figure.  When  she  had  closed  the  door 
behind  her  the  studio  was  silent,  except  for  the 
echoes  of  steps  in  the  corridors,  or  a  voice  up- 
lifted in.  some  neighbouring  room,  or  a  faint 
whistling  farther  off.  The  building  was  a  hive 
of  desultory  business,  sheltering  many  attempts 
to  produce  the  Beautiful.  Teresa  called  it  "  the 
factory." 

She  sat  down,  took  her  little  clay  statuette  of 
the  faun  out  of  its  moist  wrappings,  and  began 
working  on  it  languidly.  Her  corner  was  the 


126  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

most  attractive  part  of  the  room.  It  was  partly 
shut  off  by  a  carved  screen,  and  had  cushioned 
chairs  of  green  wicker,  and  a  table  with  a  tea- 
service,  and  a  low  pedestal  with  a  vase  of  flowers. 
The  flowers  were  fading.  Bought,  like  the  lilacs, 
in  the  city  streets,  they  had  lasted  but  a  day. 
Teresa  frowned  as  she  noticed  their  faint,  sickly 
odour,  and  rose  to  set  them  away.  She  had  rolled 
up  the  sleeves  of  her  thin,  white  blouse,  but  had 
not  taken  off  her  hat.  Her  head  drooped  as  she 
took  up  her  work  again,  and  she  sighed,  and 
paused  to  look  at  herself  in  a  mirror.  Under 
the  shadow  of  the  black  hat  her  eyes  looked  back 
at  her  with  a  strange  melancholy  and  uneasi- 
ness. After  a  moment  her  face  looked  to  her 
like  that  of  a  stranger,  some  woman  oppressed 
and  sad,  and  this  impression  frightened  her.  She 
turned  away  abruptly,  and  began  with  a  little 
tool  to  model  the  faun's  thick  neck  and  shaggy 
shoulder.  He  seemed  a  trivial  creature,  as  she 
handled  him;  Basil's  cartoon,  reflected  in  the 
mirror,  appeared  to  her  meaningless  and  absurd. 
The  air  of  the  studio,  of  the  building,  of  the  whole 
city,  seemed  stale  and  oppressive.  She  thought 
of  the  woods,  of  the  sea,  and  a  desire  to  go  far 
away,  away  from  Basil,  from  everything,  came 
upon  her.  She  was  tired,  and  a  thought,  a  fear, 
a  possibility,  lay  heavy  on  her  heart.  It  had 
come  to  her  in  the  night,  and  she  had  not  slept. 
There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Teresa  called, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  127 

"  Come  in,"  but  apparently  was  not  heard.  After 
a  moment  the  knock  was  repeated,  sharply,  and 
she  went  to  open  the  door  impatiently.  A  woman 
stood  there,  with  a  long,  light  cloak  over  her 
dress,  and  a  white  veil  tied  over  a  small  hat,  but 
not  covering  her  face. 

"  Isn't  Mr.  Eansome  here? "  she  asked  in  a 
quick,  decided  voice,  inclining  her  head  slightly. 

"  No.  He  may  be  back  in  half  an  hour.  .Won't 
you  come  in?  " 

"  Just  a  minute.  I  don't  think  I'll  wait."  She 
walked  in,  and  said  with  a  smile :  "  You're  Mrs. 
Ransome.  I  know  you  from  your  pictures  here, 
and  perhaps  you  know  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Teresa,  also  smiling,  as  she  shut 
the  door. 

"You've  seen  my  portrait — how  do  you  like 
it?" 

She  was  looking  about  for  the  picture  as  she 
spoke.  Teresa  looked  at  her  earnestly.  The 
white  veil,  drawn  across  the  brow  and  tied  un- 
der the  chin,  framed  her  face  like  a  nun's  garb. 
Her  dark  eyes  wrere  piercing  and  impatient  un- 
der their  straight-scored  brows.  Her  complexion 
suffered  from  the  white  frame. 

"  I  thought  it  very  interesting — before  I  had 
seen  you,"  said  Teresa  slowly. 

"Ah,  you  can't  tell  with  this  thing  on — wait." 
She  untied  the  veil,  and  took  off  her  hat,  show- 
ing black  hair,  thick  about  her  low  forehead,  and 


128  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

parted  in  the  middle,  and  beautiful  modelling 
about  the  chin  and  throat.  "  Now,  what  do  you 
think?" 

"As  I  remember  the  picture,  the  likeness  is 
there,"  said  Teresa.  "  But  it  looks  older  than 
you  do — and  sadder.  Basil's  portraits  are  al- 
most always  like  that — what  the  person  will  be 
like  in  ten  years,  say — the  character  accentuated, 
the  lines  sharper — I  reproach  him  for  it,"  she 
added  smiling.  "  It  would  be  better  to  paint  a 
pretty  woman  as  she  is,  don't  you  think  so?  " 

Mrs.  Perry  had  listened  with  interest,  her  big, 
dark  eyes  fixed  on  Teresa. 

"  I  don't  know — perhaps  his  way  is  more  an 
interpretation,"  she  said  abruptly.  "  It  is  inter- 
esting, at  least.  Anyone  almost  can  paint  a 
pretty  woman,  but  to  see  what  she  is " 

"  He  only  paints  what  he  sees,  of  course — only 
he  sees,  perhaps,  what  isn't  there !  " 

"  No,  it's  all  there — all  that  may  be,  all  that 
we  must  be — we  must  grow  old — and  sad!  I 
wish  we  could  see  the  picture." 

Teresa  waved  a  doubtful  hand  toward  the 
rows  of  canvases  stacked  face  inward  against  the 
wall. 

"We  might  try,"  she  suggested. 

"  No — I  won't  wait.  And,  besides,  you're  busy. 
I'm — no,  I'm  not  sorry  I  interrupted  you,  for 
I'm  very  glad  to  have  seen  you,"  she  said  with  a 
quick  smile,  as  she  went  to  the  mirror  to  put  on 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  129 

her  hat  and  veil.  "  I  know  you  work  here  some- 
times— Mr.  Kamsome  showed  me  some  of  your 
work — I  thought  it  extremely  good.  I  wonder 
when  I  could  come  to  sit  again — I'm  most  anx- 
ious to  get  on  with  the  portrait.  Do  you  think 
Mr.  Ransome  would  like  me  to  come  to-mor- 
row?" 

"  I  think  he  would." 

"  Well,  then,  would  you  tell  him  that  I'll  come 
at  half-past  three,  unless  I  hear  from  him? 
Thank  you.  And  I  wonder — would  you  both 
come  and  dine  with  me  one  day  this  week?  Do — 
let  us  say  Thursday — at  eight?  I  would  come  to 
see  you  before,  but  I  shall  be  out  in  the  country 
almost  every  day,  looking  after  a  house  Fm 
building.  Good-bye — till  Thursday,  then." 

She  put  out  her  hand,  but  Teresa  smilingly 
showed  her  own,  moist  from  the  clay.  With  a 
nod,  Mrs.  Perry  rustled  out  of  the  studio.  A 
perfume  of  iris  lingered  in  the  dead  air. 

Basil  came  back  a  few  minutes  later,  grave  and 
worried.  He  flung  his  hat  down  and  shook  his 
shoulders  with  a  familiar  impatient  gesture. 
His  mouth  and  jaw  had  settled  into  the  drag- 
ging look  of  despondency,  which  showed  the 
weight  laid  on  his  spirit. 

"Well?"  said  Teresa  sharply,  wrapping  up 
the  clay  faun  again. 

"  Pneumonia.  He  was  picked  up  somewhere 
and  taken  to  the  hospital  four  days  ago.  The 


130  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

crisis  came  night  before  last.  He'll  get  well, 
they  think,  though  he  had  a  narrow  shave — the 
whisky  nearly  did  for  him.  I  found  him  in  the 
common  ward.  He  wanted  me  to  get  him  a  pri- 
vate room,  and  send  a  letter  to — his  place — and 
so  on.  I  arranged  it." 

"  How  is  he  now? "  asked  Teresa,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  Basil  tramped  sombrely  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"  Oh,  he  looks  like  the  devil.  A  wreck.  It 
would  have  been  better  for  him  if  he'd  played 
out  for  good,  I'm  afraid." 

"  You  men  are  rather  hard  on  one  another — 
and  for  the  same  sort  of  thing  that  you  all  do, 
more  or  less." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  the  more  or  less.  With  the  less 
a  man  can  get  on,  but  with  the  more  he  goes  to 
the  wall — and  perhaps  the  sooner  the  better." 

Basil's  face  somewhat  belied  the  hardness  of 
his  words,  and  showed  how  deeply  he  had  been 
disturbed.  Teresa  was  silent  for  some  moments, 
then  she  told  him  of  Mrs.  Perry's  visit.  He 
brightened. 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad  she's  back.  I  want  to  get  on 
with  the  portrait — I  believe  it's  pretty  good.  To- 
morrow afternoon,  she  said?  " 

"Yes,  but — I  wranted  you  to-morrow  after- 
noon." 

"  What  for?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  take  me  into  the  country.    I 


T  H  E    B  O  N  D  131 

want  to  go  now,  this  morning,  and  stay  several 
days.  I  must  get  away  somewhere." 

"Why — what's  the  matter? — oh!"  A  shadow 
came  over  his  face,  his  eyes  softened  into  tender- 
ness. 

"  You're  still  worrying?  "  he  said  gently,  and 
came  and  knelt  beside  her  chair. 

"  I  want  to  go  away,"  repeated  Teresa,  her 
eyes  cast  down,  pulling  on  her  gloves  nervously. 
"  Let  us  go  to  that  little  place  where  we  lunched 
the  other  day,  and  stay  two  or  three  days — will 
you?" 

"  Of  course  I  will — anything  in  the  world  you 
want,  dearest." 

"And  by  that  time  I  shall  know,  I  suppose, 
and " 

"  No,  no,  don't  worry  about  it.  I  don't  believe 
it  is  that.  Come — we  can  catch  the  twelve 
o'clock  train,  and  be  out  there  in  time  for  lunch." 

"We  must  stop  and  tell  Mary,  and  get  a 
bag  or  so.  We  can't  exactly  go  without  any- 
thing." 

"They'd  take  us  for  a  runaway  couple — 
wouldn't  that  amuse  you?" 

"  I  don't  believe  anything  would  amuse  me 
just  now.  You  don't  mind  running  away  from 
Mrs.  Perry?  " 

"  Oh,  hang  Mrs.  Perry !  I'll  write  her  not  to 
come." 

He  sat  down  at  his  table  and  scratched  off  a 


132  T  H  E    B  O  N  D 

note,  Teresa  looking  over  his  shoulder;  then 
caught  up  his  hat  and  hurried  Teresa  away, 
locking  the  door  behind  him. 

•  •  •  •  • 

It  was  a  moonlight  night,  and  they  took  a 
boat  and  rowed  about  the  smooth  bay.  Teresa 
was  silent.  Once  she  began  to  sing  Schubert's 
"  Water  Song,"  but  the  light  music  faltered  and 
died;  and  she  sang  instead  the  " Kbnig  im 
Tlnule"  sang  it  dreamily  and  mysteriously;  then 
the  marvellous  plaint  of  Gretchen's  disturbed 
heart  for  the  absent  Faust.  And  then,  "  Im 
wundersclionen  Monat  Mai"  and  here  she  broke 
down  and  cried  passionately : 

"  Oh,  we  have  only  had  a  year !  " 

Basil  shipped  his  oars,  and  moved  nearer  her 
in  the  rocking  boat. 

"  Upset  it,  and  let  us  both  drown !  "  she  cried. 

"Dearest — my  sweetheart — don't  be  a  blaz- 
ing idiot — you're  cold,  you're  shivering — we'll 
go  in,  and  I'll  comfort  you,  my  own " 

"  I  never  wanted  to  marry  you  anyway,"  she 
cried. 

"But  you  did.  Wrap  that  coat  round  you, 
you  foolish  girl." 

He  bent  to  the  oars  and  sent  the  boat  leaping 
along  the  track  of  the  moon  toward  the  pier.  In 
a  few  moments  they  were  in  their  room  at  the 
inn,  and  Basil  made  Teresa  drink  half  a  wine- 
glass of  brandy.  He  wrapped  her  in  blankets, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  133 

and  held  her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her  temple, 
her  hair,  her  cheeks.  She  kept  her  eyes  hidden. 

"  I  hate  you,"  she  murmured  once  softly. 

"  Do  you,  dearest?  "  he  said,  a  little  drearily. 

Then  her  arms  went  round  his  neck,  and  she 
laid  her  wet  cheek  to  his. 

"No,  not  you,  but  life.  I  only  wanted  to 
be  left  alone.  I  was  so  happy  with  you.  And 
now  all  will  be  different,  if  this  is  true — we  can 
never  be  the  same.  And  I  shall  be  ugly,  and  you 
will  stop  caring  for  me " 

"  I  shall  love  you  more  than  ever.  I  didn't 
think  it  possible,  but  I  shall.  You're  not  sorry 
you  married  me,  are  you?  " 

" '  Que  le  bonheur  passe  vite,  mon  Dieu,  qu'il 
passe  vite,  et  quant  on  souffre  en  y  pensant  plus 
tard! ' "  murmured  Teresa. 

"  Don't,  you  silly  child.  Be  brave,  Teresa ;  you 
won't  regret  in  the  end " 

"  How  do  you  know?  I  don't  want  to  be  brave, 
I  want  to  be  happy.  I  don't  want  responsibili- 
ties, I  don't  want  to  be  tied  down — I  want  noth- 
ing but  you.  I  hate  babies." 

"  You  won't,  if  you  have  one  of  your  own.  It 
will  be  better  for  you  in  the  end,  for  us  both, 
for  our  relation.  I'm  sure  it  will — it's  natural 
and  right " 

"  Don't  preach.    I  don't  want  it." 

"  You  don't  want  anything  till  you  get  it.  You 
didn't  want  me,  but  you're  not  sorry,  are  you?  " 


134  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  No — the  queer  thing  is,  that,  in  spite  of  ev- 
erything, I'm  not  sorry.  I've  always  been  glad, 
every  moment,  that  I  married  you,  even  when  I 
disliked  you  most." 

"  Yet  you  refused  me  seven  times.  So  you 
see!  You  don't  know  what  you  want.  Take 
what  life  gives  you,  Teresa;  take  it  with  both 
hands,  don't  be  afraid.  Drink  deep,  even  if  you 
suffer.  Life — that's  the  main  thing — it's  more 
life  you  need,  not  less." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  where  the  flame  of 
life  indeed  glowed  keen  and  strong;  and  she 
clung  to  him,  with  the  first  feeling  that  his 
strength  might  protect  her,  with  the  first  con- 
scious yielding  to  it.  She  lay  looking  at  him 
curiously. 

"  I  believe  you're  glad,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"  I  should  be,  if  you  were  not  unhappy,"  he 
answered,  and  looked  almost  shamefaced. 

"  It's  odd  that,  though  you're  fond  of  me,  you 
don't  mind  my  suffering,  or  even  that  I  might 
die.  Eemember  your  mother,  she " 

"  Oh,  don't !  oh,  don't !  "  he  cried.  "  I  couldn't 
live  without  you." 

The  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks;  and  then 
Teresa,  as  always  when  she  had  moved  him,  be- 
came gentle,  coaxing,  and  gay. 

"  Never  mind  what  I  say,  I  have  no  intention 
of  dying.  You  won't  have  to  live  without  me, 
but  with  me,  and  I  warn  you,  that  may  be  even 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  135 

more  difficult.  I  shall  be  as  nasty  as  possible ;  I 
shall  worry  the  life  out  of  you.  You  poor  old 
creature,  you'll  rue  the  day  that  you  asked  me 
for  the  eighth  time!  I  gave  you  seven  chances 
of  happiness,  and  you  refused  them.  Now,  you're 
bound,  and  this — this — settles  it.  You  can 
never  get  away  from  me,  nor  I  from  you.  .  .  . 
I  always  liked  to  think,  you  know,  that  we  were 
both  free,  and  neither  needed  to  put  up  with 
the  other  a  day  longer  than  we  both  wanted.  But 
now  we're  both  going  to  be  slaves.  Oh,  you'll 
see,  you'll  see!  I  tell  you  our  youth  is  over. 
Now  we  pass  under  the  yoke.  This  is  the  real 
S  yoke,  not  marriage.  Oh,  you'll  regret  it,  when 
_you  see  me  fat  and  ugly,  my  figure  gone,  my 
good  temper  gone " 

"  My  slim  mermaid !  " 

"  Mermaid !   I  shall  look  like  this !  " 

She  made  a  caricature  with  the  blankets. 
Then  she  stretched  out  her  arms  and  looked 
down  at  her  long  slim  body  sadly. 

"  Good-bye  to  my  beauty,"  she  murmured. 
"You  will  need  to  love  me,  to  make  up  for  it! 
But  when  it's  gone,  perhaps  you  won't — love  me 
any  more." 

"  Is  it  for  that  only  that  I  love  you?  You're 
the  love  of  my  soul,  too."  And  he  caught  her  in 
a  passionate,  sad  embrace. 


PAKT   II 


TT7ITH  the  first  cold  days  of  autumn,  the 
»  *  Ransomes  were  settled  again  in  town. 
Teresa  brought  back  from  a  long  lazy  summer 
in  the  country  blooming  health  and  content. 
Peace  of  soul  and  body  had  wrapped  her  round. 
A  calm  like  that  of  summer  nature  itself  had 
grown  upon  her,  after  the  troubled  and  passion- 
ate spring.  She  was  conscious  of  withdrawing 
herself  from  all  that  could  disturb  her,  of  retreat- 
ing within  herself,  gathering  her  forces,  mental 
and  physical,  for  her  solitary  ordeal. 

One  day  soon  after  her  return  Alice  Black- 
ley  came  to  see  her,  fresh  from  the  sea  and  a 
summer  at  St.  Moritz,  elaborately  dressed,  and 
ready  to  condole. 

"You're  looking  well,  though — really  well," 
she  said.  "  How  do  you  manage  it?  Most  women 
look  such  frights.  And  that  dress  is  clever. 
Why,  actually  you  look — perfectly  presenta- 
ble!" 

And  she  examined  curiously  Teresa's  long 
sweeping  dress  of  dark  violet  crepe,  pleated  in 
innumerable  narrow  folds,  flowing  out  from  the 
square-cut  neck  to  the  hem.  Teresa  smiled. 

"  I  should  never  dare,  myself,"  said  Alice. 

"Why  not?" 

139 


140  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Oh,  a  thousand  reasons.  First,  I  might  lose 
my  figure.  Then  think  of  the  frightful  bother  of 
it  all — babies  do  upset  a  house  so.  Then,  I 
should  be  afraid — terribly  afraid.  To  think 
what  women  go  through!  I  don't  see  how  they 
can  do  it,  unless  they  want  a  child  most  awfully, 
and  I  know  some  do.  But  I  don't.  Aren't  you 
afraid,  Teresa?  " 

"  I  don't  think  about  it,"  said  Teresa  dream- 
ily. 

"But  how  can  you  help  it?  And  you  know 
you  can't  get  away  from  it,  and  it  comes  nearer 
every  day " 

"  The  sooner  it  will  be  over.  It's  all  in  the 
day's  work." 

"  But  one  needn't,  you  know,  unless  one  likes. 
And  I  could  never  make  up  my  mind  to  it.  Think 
of  the  responsibility!  To  call  another  human 
being  into  this  world  by  our  own  will,  perhaps 
to  suffer " 

Teresa  looked  at  Alice's  pretty,  empty  face 
and  large,  inquisitive,  stupid  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  by  our  own  will — perhaps 
it's  something  bigger,"  she  said,  as  though  to 
herself. 

"  Oh,  Teresa,  you  are  not  religious !  " 

"  No,  but — the  world  is  vast  and — mysterious. 
It  has  been  going  on  such  a  long  time,  think, 
and  always  in  the  same  way!  Who  is  any  one 
of  us,  after  all,  to  set  herself  against  the  cur- 


THE     BOND  141 

rent  of  things?  It's  easier  to  go  with  the  tide 
— to  let  one's  self  go " 

Teresa  stretched  out  her  arms  with  a  vague, 
sensuous  gesture  and  sighed. 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  said  Alice.  "  Is  Basil 
pleased?  " 

"  I  believe  he  is." 

"  Of  course.  There's  more  paternal  instinct 
than  maternal,  I  think,  and  no  wonder,  as  they've 
none  of  the  bother  of  it.  I  believe  Horace  would 
like  to  have  fifty  children,  if  he'd  married  some- 
body else.  But  he  knows  I  won't.  .  .  . 
What  shall  you  do  all  this  winter  to  amuse 
yourself,  Teresa?  Shan't  you  be  awfully 
bored?  " 

"  Perhaps.  People  will  come  and  see  me,  I 
suppose.  And  I  shall  do  some  work — little 
things.  I  began  a  bust  of  Basil,  but  that  must 
wait,  now,  till  afterwards." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  so  happy  about 
it.  I  shall  send  you  something  pretty  for  the 
baby.  And  you'll  come  and  dine  with  us  soon, 
won't  you — just  ourselves?  Give  my  love  to 
Basil.  Has  he  been  working?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  He's  doing  some  panels  now  for  a 
bungalow  that  Mrs.  Perry's  building  down  on 
her  Long  Island  place." 

Alice  looked  suddenly  interested. 

"Bungalow?  But  I  thought  she  was  building 
a  big  house  in  stone." 


142  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Yes,  but  the  bungalow  is  a  bachelors'  house 
near  the  main  one.  She  has  big  crowds  staying 
with  her  always." 

"And  what  is  it  like — the  bungalow?" 

"  Decorations  all  American  Indian — Navajo 
blankets,  pottery,  baskets,  what  not — and  half  a 
dozen  panels,  landscapes,  old  Indian  hunting- 
grounds." 

"  Have  you  seen  her  place?  " 

"Yes,  we've  been  there  two  or  three  times  for 
a  few  days." 

"Oh,  you  know  her,  too?  Do  you  like  her? 
I  thought  she  was  Basil's  flame." 

"  I  like  her.    Basil  does,  too,  I  imagine." 

"And  she  likes  him?  Aren't  you  jealous? 
They  say  she's  fascinating.  I've  just  barely  met 
her." 

Teresa  smiled.  "  I  couldn't  be  jealous  any 
more,"  she  said.  "  All  that  seems  so  foolish, 
now." 

"  Then  you  were  jealous?  ...  I  wonder 
wrhat  it's  like!  I  couldn't  possibly  be  jealous 
of  Horace,  could  I?  But,  of  course,  Basil's  dif- 
ferent. I  don't  think  I  should  want  a  handsome 
man  for  a  husband.  Husbands  ought  to  be  use- 
ful. What's  hers  like?  " 

"  Mrs.  Perry's  husband?  Oh,  he's  useful,  I 
suppose.  He's  a  peevish  man,  with  nervous  pros- 
tration. He  travels  nearly  all  the  time.  He 
seems  to  be  interested  in  nothing  but  his  symp- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  143 

toms  and  archaeology.  He's  writing  a  book  on 
the  Hittites.  I  believe  he's  a  good  banker,  too." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  what  she  has  to  complain 
of.  I  hear  she's  rather  too  gay.  I  should  look 
after  Basil,  if  I  were  you." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  smiled  Teresa. 

This,  too,  Alice  could  not  understand,  and 
she  went  away,  convinced  that  Teresa  did  not 
want  the  baby,  and  that  she  was  profoundly  jeal- 
ous of  Mrs.  Perry,  but  dissembled  out  of  pride. 

When  she  had  gone,  Teresa  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  room,  sighing  a  little  wearily.  She 
moved  with  the  pathetic  clumsiness  of  a  natur- 
ally graceful  woman,  slowly,  the  sombre  dress 
rippling  about  her  and  hiding  the  lines  of  her 
body.  Her  head  drooped  as  though  owning  the 
weight  of  her  burden,  yet  its  poise  on  the  long 
throat  had  a  touching  dignity.  She  sighed,  for  she 
was  beginning  to  feel  the  cramping  conditions 
of  the  city,  after  her  free  and  quiet  summer. 
She  did  not  like  now  to  go  out  into  the  streets. 
She  drove  up  every  day  to  the  Park,  and  walked 
there  in  quiet  by-ways ;  but  she  missed  her  phys- 
ical freedom,  the  exhilaration  of  quick  motion, 
and  the  irresponsible  gaiety  of  her  former  life. 
A  touch  of  mysticism,  new  to  her,  helped  her  to 
feel  that  this  experience  must  compensate  for 
itself;  and,  in  resigning  her  own  clear  individ- 
ual preferences,  in  bowing  to  a  necessity  which 
seemed  to  lie  in  the  life  of  love  she  had  chosen, 


144  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

she  felt  the  breath  of  a  wider,  vaguer  horizon. 
The  world  was  greater  to  her,  more  terrible,  but 
more  inspiring,  because  of  this  force  that  com- 
pelled her,  to  which  her  will  submitted.  But 
joy  had  always  lain  for  her  in  the  free  expres- 
sion of  her  will  and  the  sense  of  her  own  power ; 
her  submission  could  not  be  joyous.  Her  face 
was  that  of  a  pensive  Madonna.  Its  outline  was 
fuller,  and  the  narrow  eyes  had  lost  their  gaiety, 
their  hint  of  wildness.  She  did  not  think  much 
about  the  child  to  come.  It  had  not  begun  to 
seem  an  entity  to  her  until,  lately,  she  had  made 
some  clothes  for  it.  A  queer  feeling  of  tender- 
ness for  it  woke  in  her  as  she  sewed  real  lace 
about  the  necks  of  its  tiny  dresses,  and  myste- 
rious tears  fell  on  the  muslin. 

She  was  thinking  now  about  a  night,  just 
before  their  return  to  town,  when  another  feel- 
ing about  the  child  had  come  to  her.  It  was  a 
bright  moonlight  night,  and  she  was  walking 
on  the  verandah  of  their  cottage,  facing  a  little 
inlet  of  the  Sound,  that  glittered  restlessly  as 
the  tide  came  in  and  rocked  the  sailboat  an- 
chored some  way  from  the  land.  Charles  Page, 
the  young  architect,  had  come  down  to  dine  and 
spend  the  night,  and  he  and  Basil  were  in  the 
living-room,  smoking — Teresa  now  could  not 
bear  the  smell  of  tobacco — and  talking  lazily,  but 
interestedly.  She  glanced  in  now  and  then  at 
them  in  the  lamplight;  they  had  forgotten  her. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  145 

They  were  stretched  out  in  two  long  chairs,  the 
whisky  decanter  and  a  box  of  cigars  near  by. 
It  was  late;  Teresa  was  supposed  to  have  gone 
to  bed;  they  were  too  busy  talking  to  observe 
her  silent  passing  outside.  Now  and  then  she 
heard  a  fragment  of  their  talk — they  were  globe- 
trotting, and  their  reminiscences  of  youth  and 
many  lands  were  familiar  echoes.  Basil  showed 
Page  a  Japanese  pipe,  a  light  dainty  thing,  such 
as  the  women  smoke,  and  Teresa  could  see  the 
words  form  on  his  lips,  and  the  smile,  and  she 
could  see  the  picture — the  little  pale  woman,  fpr- 
mal  and  soft,  waking  in  the  night,  emptying  the 
pipe  with  a  few  breaths,  and  laying  it  down 

And  all  at  once  the  feeling  had  come  to  her: 
"  He  is  one  and  I  am  another — I  am  forever 
outside,  and  he  is  a  stranger  to  me,  in  spite  of 
all.  But  this,  this  child  of  mine,  is  really  mine. 
I  shall  understand  it,  it  will  comfort  me,  it  will 
belong  to  me.  I  shall  not  need  him  so  much." 
And  the  feeling  had  brought  her  a  new  peace, 
and  the  power  to  look  at  Basil  more  imperson- 
ally, to  be  grateful  for  his  deep  and  real  love 
of  her,  to  think  of  him  with  almost  maternal 
tenderness.  The  child,  too,  in  time,  would  have 
needs  that  she  could  not  satisfy,  and  live  its  life 
away  from  her — and  yet  it,  too,  she  thought, 
would  always  love  her. 

But  between  her  and  Basil  something  had 
happened — the  first  weakening  of  the  physical 


146  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

bond  that  unites  two  who  are  necessary  and  suffi- 
cient to  one  another.  She  did  not  altogether 
realise  it  herself.  She  thought  no  more  about 
it  than  she  could  help,  but  it  saddened  her,  and 
touched  the  cup  of  physical  suffering  that  she 
must  drink  with  a  strange  bitterness.  The  cost 
of  love  was  after  all,  perhaps,  in  proportion 
to  its  sweetness;  but  one  paid,  not  for  love,  but 
for  the  awful  physical  force  that  moved  the 
human  world,  for  its  blind,  impersonal  hunger, 
for  its  primeval  riot 

So  the  world  was  made — so  it  must  go  on — 
and  the  tyranny  of  that  necessity  drove  men  like 
sheep.  The  will  to  live,  of  life  conscious  and  un- 
conscious, the  physical  instinct,  cruel,  wasteful, 
and  careless — at  times  it  seemed  to  her  to  make 
of  human  beings  mere  foolish  puppets,  without 
will  or  dignity.  If  this  was  the  world,  who 
would  suffer  to  carry  it  on?  Except  that  one 
must 

Was  it  possible  that  she,  too,  had  been  caught 
in  the  mesh  spread  for  all,  and  that  love,  that 
had  seemed  all  joy  and  lightness,  was  only  a 
cynical  bait,  set  to  entangle  one? 

When  such  thoughts  beset  her,  she  wished  that 
she  were  religious,  that  she  might  see  spirit  and 
meaning  governing  the  world,  instead  of  brute 
force;  but  she  could  not  see  it.  Happily,  her 
dark  moods  were  rather  rare. 

Basil  came  in  now  before  the  shadow  had 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  147 

fairly  settled  upon  her,  and  his  caressing  look 
and  touch  made  her  cheerful  again.  It  was  a 
point  of  pride  with  her  that  he  should  not  feel 
her  a  burden,  now  that  she  was  not  going  out. 
She  liked  him  to  go,  and  to  come  back  and  en- 
tertain her  with  accounts  of  his  doings;  and 
Basil  readily  adopted  her  own  theory,  that  she 
was  never  bored  with  her  own  society.  Now, 
as  he  dressed  for  dinner,  she  lay  on  his  bed  and 
talked  to  him ;  dictated  what  waistcoat  he  should 
wear,  and  tied  his  white  tie.  She  told  him  of 
Alice's  visit. 

"  Alice  is  an  idiot,"  he  said  warmly.  "  She 
ought  to  have  a  baby  herself.  It's  what  she 
needs,  only  she  doesn't  know  it,  and  I've  told 
her  so." 

"  You  have  a  panacea  for  all  feminine  ills, 
haven't  you?  "  said  Teresa,  with  quiet  sarcasm. 
"  Marriage  for  those  who  aren't  married,  and 
babies  for  those  who  haven't  babies " 

"  That's  right — that's  what  they  all  want,  if 
they  haven't  got  'em." 

"  Then  women  are  divided  into  two  classes — 
those  who  have  worries,  and  those  who  want 
them." 

"  Yes,  and  the  last  state  is  worse  than  the 
first." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Teresa,  stretching  her  arms 
wearily.  "  For  me — I've  always  had  more  than 
I  wanted." 


148  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"You're  a  lucky  girl — don't  put  your  arms 
up  that  way,  dearest.  You  know " 

"  Oh,  be  quiet,  Basil !  I'm  so  tired  of  having 
to  think  all  the  time  about  it!" 

"  Never  mind,  dearest,  it  won't  be  long,  now." 
He  came  over  to  kiss  her  tenderly. 

"  Long?  Ah,  yes  it  will  be — four  long  months, 
and  then  that  at  the  end " 

"  Dearest,  dearest,  I  wish  I  could  do  it  for 
you." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  you  old  silly !  " 

"  I  do,  honestly.  I'd  like  to  be  a  woman  for 
a  while — it  must  be  a  tremendous  experience." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  all  brands  of  experience 
are  desirable." 

"Well,  you  are  all  the  better  for  all  you've 
had — more  interesting,  sweeter,  more  beautiful. 
You  were  always  pretty,  but  now  you're  beau- 
tiful." 

She  smiled  pensively. 

"And  now  I  must  go  on,  or  I  shall  be  late. 
Good-night,  my  love.  I  wish  you  were  going, 
too." 

"  Good-night.  Don't  make  love  to  Mrs. 
Perry." 

She  held  him  close  for  a  moment,  kissed  his 
eyelids  gently,  and  let  him  go  with  a  smile. 


II 

THE  winter  passed  pleasantly  enough  for 
her.  Plenty  of  people  came  to  the  house, 
and  there  were  many  of  the  little  dinners  she 
enjoyed,  when  two,  three,  or  more  men  came  in 
informally  and  talked  of  their  own  affairs,  or 
those  of  the  nation,  with  varying  degrees  of 
effectiveness. 

Nearly  all  these  men  were  of  the  sort  that,  as 
she  said,  "  lived  by  their  wits."  They  were  civ- 
ilised, sophisticated,  a  little  hard,  living  the 
rapid  life  of  the  city;  and  few  of  them  had 
reached  the  age  of  forty,  at  which  the  pace  would 
begin  to  tell  against  them.  She  liked  their  free 
speech,  and  the  reflection  of  their  intense  and 
interested  lives.  Erhart  came  often,  and  rather 
bored  her  by  his  large  and  massive  egotism;  he 
did  not  fit  in  well  with  the  others.  He  was, 
Basil  said,  too  purely  the  artist  type.  Gerald 
Dallas  came  back,  looking  much  older,  quieter 
than  ever,  with  more  than  his  old  devotion. 
Teresa  was  for  him,  she  felt,  not  merely  an  at- 
tractive woman  engaged  in  the  laudable,  but 
disabling  work  of  child-bearing;  she  was  an  in- 
dividuality which,  once  for  all,  had  taken  its 
place  among  the  great  facts  of  his  life.  His 
feeling  for  her  was  above  any  accident  of  her 

149 


150  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

own  life,  or  his.  He  never  spoke  of  it,  but  in 
every  other  way  he  showed  how  important  she 
was  to  him.  The  quiet  hours  they  spent  to- 
gether were  consoling  to  Teresa.  Gerald's  deep 
melancholy  w,as  like  the  effect  of  an  autumn 
evening,  of  rainy  woods,  dark  gliding  streams, 
and  the  dull  sunset  gleam  of  defeat.  He  was  a 
beaten  man,  but  in  many  moods  his  sadness  was 
more  congenial  to  Teresa  than  Basil's  buoyant 
optimism.  Deep  within  her  was  a  conviction 
that  life,  if  it  must  be  taken  seriously,  was  a 
desperate  business.  Gerald  seemed  to  her  to 
fail  not  ignobly,  for  he  at  least  had  vision.  He 
was  one  of  the  few  people  whom  she  could  im- 
agine existing  after  death.  The  world  had  ob- 
viously no  use  for  him,  but  if  there  could  con- 
ceivably be  a  better  world,  she  thought  Gerald 
suited  to  inhabit  it.  As  a  frivolous  expression 
of  this  idea  she  modelled  one  day  a  little  stat- 
uette of  him,  with  wings,  a  halo  round  his  bald 
forehead  and  a  harp  in  his  hand,  which  made 
him  merry,  for  the  first  time  since  his  illness. 

•  •  •  •  • 

On  an  evening  when  February  was  melting 
into  March  in  a  wild  storm  of  snow,  sleet,  and 
wind,  Basil  came  in  just  before  dinner  and  found 
Teresa  standing  by  the  window.  She  turned  a 
ghostly  face  upon  him. 

"  The  baby  is  going  to  be  born  to-night,"  she 
said.  "  I've  sent  for  the  doctor  and  the  nurse." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  151 

Basil  turned  as  white  as  she,  and  looked  much 
more  terrified. 

"  When  did  you  telephone? — perhaps  you're 
mistaken? — what  time  did  it  begin? — why 
doesn't  he  come?"  he  cried.  "I'll  telephone 
again." 

He  did  so,  but  the  specialist  was  out,  and 
wouldn't  be  in  for  an  hour.  Basil  paced  the 
flat  in  an  agony  of  nervous  helplessness.  Te- 
resa stood  silently  by  the  window,  leaning  against 
the  frame,  looking  out  on  the  whirl  of  sleet  that 
dashed  against  the  glass.  Now  and  then  she 
moved  slightly,  but  made  no  sound. 

The  nurse  arrived,  and  Basil  dashed  out,  got 
a  cab,  and  drove  off  in  pursuit  of  the  doctor; 
ran  him  down,  and  haled  him  post-haste  to  the 
flat ;  where  he  pronounced  that  he  would  not  be 
needed  for  many  hours  to  come,  and  to  Basil's 
dismay  went  off  again.  Two  figures  flickered 
before  Basil's  eyes :  the  nurse,  calm  and  smiling, 
in  her  white  uniform,  moving  swiftly  about  in 
Teresa's  room ;  and  Teresa,  in  her  trailing  black 
dress,  walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  dra\ving- 
room,  and  perfectly  silent.  She  did  not  reply 
to  Basil's  anxious  questions,  and  hardly  looked 
at  him.  He  wandered  about  in  a  lost  way.  Din- 
ner stood  untasted  in  the  dining-room.  He 
looked  into  Teresa's  room.  It  was  flooded  with 
electric  light.  All  the  orange  shades,  and  his 
wife's  other  little  vanities,  had  been  taken  away. 


152  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

The  bed  stood  out  bleak  and  chill,  with  tightly- 
drawn  white  sheets.  The  air  smelt  of  drugs. 
This  was  no  more  the  chamber  of  love,  but  a 
torture-chamber.  Basil  forgot  what  he  had 
meant  to  ask  the  nurse,  and  went  away  with 
tears  in  his  eyes. 

It  was  a  long  night.  No  one  thought  of  sleep. 
Toward  morning  the  doctor  came  to  stay.  Te- 
resa, exhausted,  dozed  for  moments  at  a  time, 
sitting  on  the  couch  in  the  drawing-room,  hold- 
ing Basil's  hand;  but  after  a  few  instants  of 
semi-consciousness  her  eyes  would  start  open,  her 
pale  face  flush  red,  and  Basil  lifted  her  up,  while 
she  leaned  her  weight  upon  him  and  gasped,  her 
lips  tight  closed.  This  went  on  for  hours.  .  .  . 
Seeing  her  exhaustion,  Basil  once  poured  out 
a  glass  of  champagne  and  begged  her  to  drink 
it.  But  Teresa,  as  the  agony  seized  her  again, 
blazed  up  for  a  moment,  snatched  the  glass  and 
flung  the  champagne  in  Basil's  face  and  the 
goblet  across  the  room,  where  it  shivered  to 
pieces. 

"  Dearest ! "  he  murmured  humbly. 

Teresa  looked  at  him  murderously,  then  sud- 
denly caught  hold  of  him,  and  sobbed  under  her 
breath.  .  .  . 

The  livid  dawn  brought  in  a  grey  morning 
of  storm.  They  took  Teresa  away,  into  the  room. 
Basil  was  sent  out  two  or  three  times  on  hasty 
errands.  He  swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee,  stand- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  153 

ing  in  the  dining-room.  Mary  the  cook  sat  there 
with  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  mumbling  a  prayer. 
He  looked  at  her  with  terrified  eyes. 

"  You  don't  think  she's  going  to  die,  do  you?  " 
he  said  angrily. 

"  Oh,  no,  Heaven  forbid,  but  it  do  be  so  long," 
gasped  the  girl. 

He  went  back  and  waited  outside  the  door. 
He  heard  the  doctor's  voice,  now  quick  and 
brusque,  as  he  gave  an  order;  now  curiously 
gentle,  as  though  he  spoke  to  a  child.  .  .  . 

All  night  she  had  not  made  a  sound  of  pain. 
And,  now,  when  the  chloroform  had  put  her 
will  to  sleep,  and  the  voice  began,  Basil  thought 
at  first  it  was  some  animal  crying  in  the  street. 
It  was  with  a  horrible  leap  of  the  heart  that  he 
realised  it — that  was  Teresa's  voice.  It  sounded 
to  him  as  though  it  came  from  far  away — a  wail 
from  some  cruel  dark  world  of  woe  and  anguish. 
And  it  went  on  and  on.  ... 

Then  came  a  shrill  scream  that  seemed  to  tear 
the  heart  out  of  his  breast — another — and  an- 
other. Then  silence.  ...  He  leaned  against 
the  door,  faint  with  terror. 

The  nurse  came  out  to  him,  after  a  time  and 
said  smiling,  "  You  have  a  fine  boy."  He 
seized  both  her  hands  and  began  to  weep  hys- 
terically. .  .  .  Later,  they  let  him  in  to  see 
Teresa.  She  lay  with  her  eyes  closed.  His  tears 
fell  on  her  hands.  She  murmured: 


154  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  The  jaws  of  death — the  jaws  of  death — I'm 
all  ground  and  chewed  to  atoms,  Basil.  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  died " 

He  could  say  nothing.  The  baby,  about  which 
he  had  not  thought  at  all,  began  to  cry.  The 
nurse  was  bathing  it,  and  she  held  it  out  for 
Basil  to  see — a  red,  angry  creature,  with  bristles 
of  black  hair  and  pale-blue  eyes.  It  shrieked 
lustily  with  wide-open  mouth. 

"  Let  me  see  him,"  said  Teresa  faintly. 

The  nurse  brought  the  baby;  and  after  one 
curious  look  of  inspection,  the  young  mother  re- 
marked : 

"  How  very  hideous  he  is.    Take  him  away." 

A  week  later  Teresa  confided  to  Basil,  tear- 
fully, that  she  did  not  like  the  baby,  and  that 
she  was  sure  he  was  going  to  be  a  frightful  nui- 
sance and  spoil  their  life  together.  She  com- 
plained viciously,  too,  of  her  continued  phys- 
ical sufferings  and  weakness,  and  her  disturbed 
nights.  She  had  braced  herself  with  all  her 
strength  for  the  great  ordeal  of  giving  birth; 
and  the  minor  discomforts  and  annoyances 
which  followed  she  resented  as  something  not 
taken  into  the  bargain. 

Basil  groaned,  and  buried  his  face  in  the  pil- 
low beside  her.  He  had  caught  a  fearful  cold 
on  the  night  of  the  baby's  birth,  and  he  had  had 
vno  rest  or  peace  since.  His  household  was  dis- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  155 

organised,  he  was  nervously  anxious  about  the 
baby,  which  encountered  the  usual  difficulties 
in  adapting  itself  to  a  new  environment,  and 
signalised  its  displeasure  by  fairly  continuous 
screaming;  and  Teresa's  rebellion  was  the  final 
straw. 

"  You  see  I  was  right,"  Teresa  said  weakly, 
"  and  you  were  wrong.  You're  always  so  cock- 
sure with  your  theories !  You  were  sure  I  should 
love  the  baby,  and  I  don't  believe  you  even  like 
it  yourself." 

"  I  wish  you'd  keep  quiet,"  growled  Basil.  "  I 
think  you're  very  silly.  Why  don't  you  make  the 
best  of  things?  " 

"  I  won't.  I  never  will  make  the  best  of 
things.  It's  a  horrid  confession  of  weakness. 
I  insist  on  seeing  them  as  they  are.  You're 
afraid  to.  You  know  we  were  perfectly  happy 
before " 

She  stopped,  and  two  tears  grew  in  her  eyes 
and  wandered  down  her  cheeks.  In  spite  of  her 
physical  uneasiness,  she  had  the  strange  new 
beauty  that  women  buy  with  the  birth-pangs. 
Her  white  skin  glowed  with  freshness,  her  lips 
were  fuller  and  redder,  and  the  two  thick  dark 
braids  of  hair  lying  across  her  shoulders  framed 
an  oval  of  cheeks  and  chin,  exquisitely  youthful 
and  tender. 

The  baby,  which  was  being  carried  about  in 
the  next  room,  a  pathetic  bundle  of  flannel  over 


156  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

the  nurse's  brawny  arm,  now  lifted  up  its  voice 
again,  and  Teresa  cried: 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Basil,  shut  the  doors ! 
If  that  creature  cries  any  more,  I  shall  go  mad !  " 

But  it  was  time  for  the  baby  to  be  fed,  and 
the  nurse  remorselessly  brought  it  in.  Teresa 
sulkily  turned  on  her  side  and  stretched  out 
her  arm  to  receive  it.  But  when  the  baby,  with 
whimpering  eagerness  and  frantic  clutches  of 
its  fingers,  had  settled  to  the  breast,  she  looked 
down  on  it  and  smiled  half  unwillingly. 

"  How  cuddly  it  is !  So  soft  and  warm !  If 
only  it  wouldn't  howl  so — I  wouldn't  mind  so 
much  if  it  were  always  like  this." 

At  the  change  in  her  voice  Basil  raised  his 
head. 

"  Poor  little  thing,  it's  because  it's  hungry,  or 
has  the  colic — I  should  think  you'd  be  sorry  for 
it,"  he  said  reproachfully. 

Teresa  lifted  the  baby's  wrinkled  red  hands 
and  listened  to  the  small  sound  of  sensuous  con- 
tent which  it  made  in  feeding. 

"  He  sings  just  like  a  kettle — or  an  asthmatic 
kitten,"  she  said,  looking  amused. 

Basil's  tired  face,  showing  deep  lines  of  ner- 
vous and  physical  strain,  changed,  too,  as  he 
looked  at  the  picture  of  Teresa  and  the  baby — 
her  profile,  with  the  long  braid  across  the  cheek, 
her  ivory-white  gleaming  shoulders  and  breast, 
her  dark  lashes  drooping  as  she  gazed  at  the 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  157 

child  with  a  quizzical  smile  in  which  emotion 
stirred — physical  pleasure  and  perhaps  a  spirit- 
ual tenderness. 

"  You  don't  know  how  beautiful  you  are," 
said  Basil,  in  a  low,  rapt  tone. 

She  looked  up  at  him  softly,  put  up  her  free 
arm  and  drew  his  head  down  on  her  full  breast. 

"  If  I'm  more  beautiful  for  you,  I  don't  mind 
it  all,"  she  said.  "All  the  babies  in  the  world 
aren't  worth  you." 


Ill 

TERESA,  however,  took  the  baby  seriously, 
and  by  dint  of  this  conscientious  care  be- 
gan to  be  fond  of  him.  She  resigned  herself  to 
the  task  of  nursing  him,  supervised  minutely  the 
details  of  his  daily  life,  and  carried  out  Basil's 
theory  that  the  baby  must  be  saved  all  nervous 
excitement.  He  was  named  Eonald  Grange, 
after  her  father.  In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks 
he  lost  his  black  bristles  and  began  to  acquire 
a  fuzz  of  soft  brown  hair ;  his  eyes,  after  waver- 
ing in  colour,  decided  to  be  brown,  like  Basil's; 
his  complexion  from  brick-red  became  first  a 
curious  yellow,  and  then  approached  fairness. 
Teresa  began  to  feel  that  he  might  ultimately  be 
presentable.  He  was  a  strong  child  with  a 
determined  will  to  live.  Major  Ransome  pro- 
nounced him  a  beauty,  and  in  his  grandfatherly 
delight  called  on  the  baby  three  of  four  times 
a  week.  Grandparents,  however,  were  pecu- 
liarly obnoxious  to  Basil's  theory;  the  poor 
Major  was  not  allowed  to  hold  Ronald  Grange, 
or  to  prod  any  portion  of  his  anatomy  with  a 
doting  finger,  or  to  chirrup  to  him.  Basil  con- 
sidered that  even  looking  at  the  baby  as  he  lay 
in  his  crib  was  self-indulgence  on  the  part  of 

158 


THE     BOND  159 

the  elders  which  might  involve  some  nervous 
strain  for  Ronald  Grange.  Basil  was  about  the 
house  pretty  constantly  for  some  time  after  the 
baby's  birth,  imforming  Teresa  that  he  couldn't 
yet  settle  down  to  work.  He  kept  a  sharp  eye 
on  the  nurse,  and  if  Teresa  fed  the  baby  too 
early  or  too  late  he  knew  it.  He  kept  many 
visitors  away  from  Eonald  Grange,  and  Teresa's 
Aunt  Sophy  went  away  in  a  passion  because, 
after  three  visits,  she  had  not  yet  succeeded  in 
seeing  the  baby.  Teresa,  however,  took  ad- 
vantage of  Basil's  occasional  absences.  She  her- 
self was  not  allowed  to  hold  the  baby  any  longer 
than  was  strictly  necessary.  But  several  times 
when  Basil  was  well  away  she  actually  played 
with  Ronald  Grange,  tickled  the  soles  of  his 
feet,  kissed  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  once,  the 
Major  arriving  in  the  midst  of  such  an  orgy,  she 
took  pity  on  the  poor  old  man  and  let  him  have 
his  share.  That  day  Ronald  Grange  was  trotted 
on  the  Major's  knee,  chucked  under  the  chin, 
poked  in  the  ribs,  and  whistled  to.  Teresa  felt 
guilty,  and  watched  Ronald  for  some  days  for 
signs  of  nervous  prostration.  But  there  was 
now  a  bond  of  crime  between  her  and  the  Major, 
and  they  continued  at  intervals  to  furnish  the 
baby  with  contraband  amusement. 

Mrs.  Perry  had  been,  in  Florida  for  February 
and  March.  When  she  returned  to  town  she 
came  at  once  to  see  Teresa.  Basil  was  not  at 


160  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

home,  and  Teresa  allowed  the  baby  to  be  brought 
in,  at  Mrs.  Perry's  demand. 

"  I've  brought  some  things  for  him,"  said  the 
lady.  "  Oh,  what  a  darling !  " 

Teresa  looked  sceptically  at  the  baby's  mot- 
tled face,  and  at  her  visitor;  but  Mrs.  Perry's 
expression,  as  she  took  the  baby  and  tucked  it 
up  against  her  shoulder,  and  touched  its  fuzzy 
head  writh  her  cheek,  silenced  the  sceptic.  Teresa 
watched  curiously.  Mrs.  Perry  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  with  the  baby,  and  then  sat  down, 
holding  him  as  though  he  were  made  of  delicate 
crystal. 

"  How  warm  and  soft  they  are !  "  she  breathed, 
her  full-lidded  dark  eyes  closing  slowly.  "  I  like 
that  smell  of  warm  flannel.  They're  just  like 
little  birds,  all  soft  down !  What  a  darling !  " 

Teresa  said  nothing.  She  was  thoroughly  sur- 
prised. When  the  nurse  came  to  take  the  baby. 
Mrs.  Perry  produced  her  gift — two  little  dresses 
beautifully  sewed  by  hand.  "  I  made  them  every 
stitch  myself  for  him,"  she  said.  Teresa  was 
oddly  touched  by  this.  Alice  had  sent  the  baby 
an  ivory  with  gold  bells.  Many  other  gifts  had 
been  sent  to  him,  but  no  one  else  she  knew  had 
actually  made  anything  for  him.  Mrs.  Perry 
asked  to  see  his  bed  and  his  wardrobe,  and  she 
turned  over  his  tiny  garments  with  caressing 
fingers.  When  she  went  away  Teresa  thought 
Mrs.  Perry  was  going  to  offer  to  kiss  her,  but  to 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  161 

her  relief  it  did  not  happen.  She  would  not 
have  liked  to  kiss  Mrs.  Perry,  though  she  liked 
her. 

She  liked  her  with  the  calm  and  civilised  part 
0f  her  intelligence,  and  at  the  same  time  ob- 
scurely hated  her.  She  appreciated  Mrs.  Perry's 
good  qualities,  liked  the  way  she  treated  herself, 
but  would  not  have  been  sorry  to  hear  that  sdine 
calamity  had  befallen  that  lady,  for  example,  the 
loss  of  her  good  looks.  Teresa  knew  that  an 
intimacy  existed  between  Mrs.  Perry  and  Basil, 
and  she  did  not  know  the  extent  of  it.  Basil 
had  assured  her  that  it  was  not  an  emotional 
relation,  except  in  so  far  as  Mrs.  Perry  had  an 
emotional  need  for  a  friend  to  whom  she  could 
talk  freely  and  profoundly,  and  look  for  sym- 
pathy. But  Teresa  believed  that  Basil  would 
lie  in  such  a  case,  though  probably  in  no  other. 
With  her  he  had  proceeded  on  a  general  plan  of 
extreme  frankness.  Eecognising  the  impersonal 
and  almost  masculine  element  in  her  intelli- 
gence, and  allowing  it,  perhaps,  more  weight  than 
it  really  possessed  in  her  total  make-up,  Basil 
had  laid  bare  to  her  all  his  ideas  and  feelings, 
and  most  of  his  doings.  For  the  first  year  of 
their  marriage  he  had  had  nothing  to  conceal, 
and  his  natural  disposition  to  frankness,  rather 
brutal  sometimes  and  partaking  a  little  of  the 
crystalline  hardness  of  his  nature,  had  had  full 
sway. 


162  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

A  cardinal  point  of  his  doctrine  was  that  only 
emotional  infidelity  counted,  and  he  passion- 
ately assured  Teresa  that  this  was  quite  out  of 
the  range  of  possibility  for  him.  She  tried  to 
believe  him. 

But  there  were  so  many  other  things  besides 
love,  in  this  essential  sense!  And  Basil's  inter- 
est in  the  sex  wras  as  wTide  as  the  world.  He  had 
an  inexhaustible  curiosity,  which  he  called  psy- 
chological, and  which  Teresa  called  puerile;  a 
keen,  almost  romantic,  sense  of  the  drama  of 
life;  a  need  of  all  sorts  of  free  and  indefinite 
human  relations.  His  theories  were  in  favour 
of  absolute  freedom  among  civilised  beings  in 
a  generation  which  was  profoundly  anarchic. 
Teresa  distrusted  all  theories.  At  the  same 
time,  intellectually,  she  approved  of  Basil;  but 
this  fact,  as  she  pointed  out  to  him,  might  not 
prevent  her  from  hating  him,  and  some  time  do- 
ing him  an  injury. 

"  I  cannot  get  rid  of  the  sense  of  possession," 
she  said.  "  I  regard  you  as  my  property,  and 
your  interest  in  other  women  as  stolen  from  me. 
I  know  it's  absurd,  but  you  can't  account  for 
feelings,  or  get  rid  of  them,  either." 

"  So  I  am  your  property,"  said  Basil.  "  But 
you  don't  want  to  lock  me  up,  do  you?  You 
wouldn't  care  a  snap  for  me  if  I  was  interested 
in  nothing  but  you.  It's  because  I  know  a  lot 
of  others  that  I  know  how  much  nicer  you  are." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  163 

"  That's  all  very  well,  but  I  wish  I  didn't  care. 
Sometimes  I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me  things. 
Scenes  come  up  to  me — pictures — all  sorts  of 
things.  Then  I  hate  you." 

"  Oh,  I  forget  sometimes  that  you're  a  woman," 
said  Basil,  with  a  humorous  sigh.  "  I  talk  to 
you  as  I  would  to  a  man.  And  you  like  it." 

"  Oh,  I  like  it  well  enough.  But — perhaps  it 
isn't  so  awfully  clever  of  you." 

"  Why  not?    Why?    What  do  you  mean?  " 

She  smiled  and  wouldn't  answer.  When  he 
pressed  her  to  speak,  she  shook  her  head  enig- 
matically. Basil  took  her  by  the  throat  and 
threatened  to  choke  her  if  she  didn't  explain; 
whereat  she  laughed,  and  said  gaily: 

"  Never  mind.  We're  good  friends,  anyway. 
I  think  we  always  shall  be,  and  like  each  other 
best  of  all.  It  doesn't  matter  if  we  amuse  our- 
selves a  little  by  the  way.  There — that's  the 
point  of  view  I'm  striving  to  reach." 

"  You  are?  Well,  I  thought  you'd  always  had 
that  point  of  view." 

"  In  a  purely  abstract  way,  but  I  want  to  feel 
it — I  want  to  put  it  into  practice.  I  hate  mere 
theories." 

"  That's  all  right — but  a  good  many  theories 
ain't  practicable,"  said  Basil,  after  a  pause. 
"  There's  a  difference,  you  know." 

"  A  difference  where?  " 

"Between  you  and  me,  for  example." 


164  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  of  it.  Many  of  your  amuse- 
ments wouldn't  appeal  to  me  at  all.  But  I  un- 
derstand all  you  say  about  the  claims  of  the 
temperament,  and,  do  you  know,  I  believe  I  have 
got  a  temperament,  too!  I'm  certain  I'm  dying 
to  be  amused.  And,  then,  if  I  am  amused,  I 
shan't  mind  if  you  are.  You  may  investigate  life 
as  much  as  you  choose,  and  make  all  the  psy- 
chological experiments  you  please.  And  I  won't 
be  a  bit  jealous.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  get 
rid  of  that  mean,  sneaking  feeling,  and  I  will. 
And  this  is  the  way  to  do  it." 

"  What  is?  You've  always  had  your  friends, 
if  that's  all.  There's  Page,  and  Alvord — and 
Dallas  spends  hours  alone  with  you  every  week." 

"Gerald!  Dear  old  Gerald!  ...  No, 
I'm  not  talking  about  him ! " 

"Well,  who  then,  you  little  wretch?" 

Basil  laughed  heartily  and  contemplated  his 
wife  with  easy  admiration.  But  she  cast  a 
glance  at  him  from  under  her  lashes,  smiled 
slightly,  and  began  to  talk  about  something  else. 

•  •  •  •  • 

She  spent  the  summer  with  the  baby  at  a  dull 
resort  on  the  Maine  coast ;  and  this  rounded  out 
an  entire  year  devoted  to  Ronald  Grange.  Ron- 
ald was  weaned,  and  throve,  and  began  cer- 
tainly to  pay  for  himself.  He  was  a  vigorous 
and  beautiful  little  creature;  and  Teresa,  who 
bathed  him  herself  and  mixed  his  food  and 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  165 

watched  his  sleep  on  the  sands,  now  learned  the 
intimate  sweetness  of  his  small,  definite  person- 
ality, felt  the  soft  charm  of  his  unfolding  in- 
telligence and  expressiveness,  was  infinitely 
touched  by  his  dependence  on  her,  and  his  con- 
sciousness of  it.  She  came  to  love  him  with  part 
of  the  emotion  that  hitherto  had  been  given  only 
to  Basil. 

Except  for  the  baby,  Teresa  wras  bored;  she 
lived  a  perfectly  hygienic  life,  and  saw  that  she 
grew  more  beautiful.  Basil's  warm  recognition 
of  this  fact,  during  the  month  that  he  spent  with 
her,  lent  a  new  interest  to  life.  Their  separa- 
tion, the  first  since  their  marriage,  was  due  to 
money  necessities.  Basil  had  found  that  an  in- 
come which  sufficed  for  two  self-indulgent  peo- 
ple was  not  enough  for  two  and  a  baby;  and  he 
had  been  painting  pot-boilers  for  Mrs.  Perry, 
who  had  a  scheme  for  decorating  her  library 
with  views  of  the  natural  beauties  of  America. 
He  had  been  bored,  too,  as  his  daily  letters 
showed  Teresa;  he  had  longed  for  her,  restless 
in  the  loss  of  their  companionship  and  the  do- 
mestic atmosphere  which  satisfied  some  deep 
need  of  his  nature;  and  when  he  finally  came 
it  was  like  an  ardent  burst  of  the  south  wind — 
a  storm  of  happiness.  He  wanted  to  spend  his 
whole  day  beside  Teresa,  to  talk  to  her  half  the 
night ;  he  was  even  jealous  of  the  baby.  It  was 
a  new  honeymoon,  more  passionate  than  the 


166  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

first,  and  Teresa  now  first  began  to  feel  the  full 
power  of  her  beauty.  Basil's  aesthetic  apprecia- 
tion of  her  had  grown  steadily ;  she  pleased  him 
now  more  deeply  than  ever;  and  she  rejoiced, 
for  some  instinct  told  her  that,  holding  Basil 
by  this  feeling  and  by  his  domestic  side,  she  held 
the  real  man. 


IV 

HE  was  a  man  rather  difficult  to  tie ;  and  he 
had  just  escaped  from  a  determined  effort 
to  entangle  him,  on  the  part  of  Isabel  Perry. 
Isabel's  choice  seemed  to  lie  between  him  and 
a  convent.  For  some  time  past  she  had  been 
studying  the  Catholic  doctrine.  A  strong  im- 
pulse of  her  passionate  nature  forced  her  toward 
that  faith;  but  as  yet  she  had  only  a  desire 
to  be  convinced,  not  a  conviction.  In  his  last 
interview  with  her,  at  her  country-house,  Basil 
had  found  her  much  moved  by  a  long  visit  that 
morning  from  a  Catholic  priest,  in  whom  she 
thought  she  had  found  a  sort  of  Pascal.  The 
master  of  the  house  was  away,  for  Isabel's  ad- 
vances to  the  faith  were  much  more  surreptitious 
than  her  love  affairs.  Basil  was  to  lunch  with 
her.  He  found  her  in  tears,  torn  between  the 
effect  of  the  priest's  talk  and  a  violent  revul- 
sion. 

"  Let  us  go  out,"  she  had  said  at  once  on 
seeing  him,  and  she  had  led  the  way  out  of  the 
library  that  opened  on  a  broad  stretch  of  turf, 
into  the  wood.  Walking  there,  she  told  him,  in 
a  depressed,  nervous  tone,  of  her  difficulties. 

"  If  I  could  only  be  sure"  she  said,  clasping 

167 


168  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

her  hands  over  the  breast  of  her  white  dress. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  my  religious  feelings  are 
only  a  result  of  my  disappointment  with  life. 
I  want  to  leave  the  wrorld,  not  because  I  believe, 
really  believe,  that  the  religious  life  is  the  right 
one,  but  because  I  can't  bear  the  life  I  lead. 
I  would  rather  have  absolute  negation  than  the 
desire  for  something  that  doesn't  exist.  It's 
the  life  that  attracts  me.  I  couldn't  become  a 
Catholic  and  stay  in  the  world.  I  wish  to  be 
shut  out  from  it,  to  live  in  some  narrow  place, 
in  a  strict  rule,  to  feel  as  mortal  sin  what  I  now 
want  without  really  believing  in  it — and,  then, 
I  believe,  I  really  should  believe — I  should  see 
good  and  evil  where  now  I  see  neither.  I  should 
feel  that  I  have  sinned,  as  I  did  when  I  talked 
to  Father  Damon  just  now — but  now  I  don't 
feel  it " 

She  turned  suddenly  and  took  Basil's  arm. 

"  With  you"  she  said,  "  I  always  feel  the 
other  thing,  the  other  appeal.  Just  the  thought 
that  I  was  to  see  you  to-day — and  it  kept  com- 
ing up  all  the  time  Father  Damon  was  talking 
— made  me  feel  my  inability  to  accept  what  he 
represents.  To  me  just  now,  Basil,  you  are  the 
world — not  the  world  I  want  to  get  away  from, 
my  world — but  the  other,  that  I  want  without 
believing  in  it.  I  mean  your  point  of  view,  your 
acceptance  of  life,  the  ease  with  which  you  take 
it — it  seems  to  jar  nothing  in  you,  to  leave  noth- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  1G9 

ing  unsatisfied — you  seem  to  me,  in  short,  so 
happy- 
She  stopped  in  her  rapid  talk,  her  rapid  pace 
along  the  grassy  walk  under  the  trees,  and  looked 
up  at  him,  pale  and  agitated.  "  You  don't  un- 
derstand my  unhappiness,  do  you?  You  can't 
help  me?  "  she  asked. 

Her  hand,  clinging  to  his  arm,  her  whole  at- 
titude of  appeal,  moved  Basil,  but  he  felt,  more 
than  emotion,  a  sense  of  constraint.  Her  eyes 
were  appealing,  but  her  mouth  was  imperious, 
eager. 

"  No  one  can  help  you,"  he  said  slowly.  "  We 
can't  help  one  another — except  by  giving  enjoy- 
ment now  and  then — that's  my  creed.  I  can't 
give  you  my  enjoyment  of  life.  I  enjoy  it  be- 
cause I  am  made  to  enjoy  it.  It  floats  me.  It 
depresses  you.  You  ask  of  life  more  than  it  can 
give.  Perhaps  that's  the  nobler  attitude — I 
don't  know.  I'm  sure  it's  the  more  romantic 
one.  I'm  not  romantic,  Isabel.  Your  alterna- 
tives of  ecstatic  happiness  or  the  cloister  both 
seem  to  me  impossible.  I  can't  understand 
wanting  to  be  ecstatic,  in  or  out  of  religion — 
but  I  see  that  you  do  want  to  be." 

"  But,  surely,  you  believe,  at  least  in  moments 
of  happiness,  in  a  feeling  of  joy  that  might  lift 
one  out  of  the  maddening  groove  of  life — you 
believe  in  love,  Basil?  " 

"  Not  as  you  do,  Isabel,"  he  said  gravely.  "  Not 


170  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

as  anything  supernatural,  mystic.  I  believe  in 
it  as  a  sweet,  every-day  food  of  life — good  and 
wholesome  and  necessary,  like  bread  and  butter. 
But  you  think  it  must  be  nectar  and  ambrosia, 
sent  down  expressly  from  heaven  ...  !  " 

He  smiled  at  her — their  eyes  were  on  a  level. 

"  Ah,  you  see,  I've  never  had  it,"  she  sighed. 

She  looked  away,  down  a  bright  vista  of  sunny 
grass  crossed  by  tree-shadows. 

"  You  mention  bread  and  butter,  and  lunch 
must  be  ready,"  she  said.  "  Forgive  me  for 
boring  you  with  my  stupid  troubles.  I  wish  I 
could  be  happy  in  a  commonplace  way,  like  you." 

Basil  laughed  gaily. 

"  I  wish  you  could !  Commonplace  isn't  half 
so  bad  as  you  think,"  he  said.  "  Do  resign  your- 
self to  it,  Isabel,  and  don't  talk  any  more  to 
Father  Damon!  Fancy  you  in  a  nun's  dress — 
your  beautiful  hair  cut  short — no,  you  mustn't 
do  it!" 

"  How  frivolous  you  are,"  she  murmured,  but 
she  smiled  and  blushed  suddenly.  She  was  lean- 
ing against  a  great  oak-trunk,  and  she  looked 
up  at  him.  .  .  .  Basil  did  not  kiss  her.  He 
was  conscious  that  it  was  expected,  and  in  his 
mind  there  was  a  clear  perception :  It  would  be 
fatal.  Isabel's  emotional  demand  frightened 
him.  This  situation  between  them  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  definite  and  difficult. 
It  was  with  a  marked  feeling  of  relief  that 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  171 

Basil,  after  lunch,  said  good-bye  to  her  for  a 
month. 

•  •  •  •  • 

That  month  Teresa  finished  modelling  Basil's 
bust.  It  was  the  first  ambitious  thing  she  had 
done  since  her  marriage.  She  was  in  love  with 
his  beauty  as  she  did  it — the  clear  essentially 
sculptural  character  of  his  finely-modelled  head, 
the  free,  dominant  poise  of  it. 

"  That's  you,  Basil — all  of  you,"  she  said,  the 
day  it  was  finished,  after  gazing  long  at  it. 

"  It's  a  good-looking  piece  of  work,"  Basil 
admitted. 

And  Erhart,  who  came  up  for  a  week  to 
give  his  opinion  on  it,  pronounced  that  it  had 
bone. 

,-"  Of  course  one  sees  that  it's  a  woman's  work," 
he  added  patronisingly. 

/  "  Of  course,"  said  Teresa  mockingly,  "  but  one 
is  astonished  that  the  dog  should  dance  so  well, 
considering  that  it  was  meant  to  go  on  all-fours 
[-isn't  that  it?  " 

I    "  Something  of  that  sort.     Do   I  hear  your 
/Aunt  Sophy  talking?  " 

"You  will,  sooner  or  later.  I  am  coming 
round  to  her  point  of  view." 

"You  a  feministe!  There  are  no  young  and 
pretty  ones,  remember  that.  Wait  till  you're 
thirty,  at  least." 

"  Oh,  two  years  of  being  married  to  Basil  are 


172  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

a  liberal  education  in  feminism.  I'm  at  least 
forty  in  experience." 

"  Oh,  nonsense.    You  adore  Basil." 

"  Of  course  I  adore  him.  His  altars  smoke 
with  sacrifice.  But  all  the  same  I  think  I  shall 
raise  one  to  the  Unknown  God." 

"  On  which  no  one  will  be  allowed  to  sac- 
rifice but  yourself,  eh?"  said  Erhart.  "You 
want  a  monopoly." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  god  sufficiently  unknown  for 
that !  "  Teresa  laughed.  "  There's  such  a  super- 
fluity of  adoration  in  this  world.  No  wonder 
our  deities  are  overfed.  I  think  I  shall  put 
Basil  on  a  meagre  diet." 

"  Don't  do  anything  to  Basil,  he's  good  enough. 
He's  the  most  married  man  I  know." 

"  He?  He's  the  aboriginal  wild  man,  roam- 
ing the  happy  hunting-grounds — in  Mrs.  Perry's 
automobile.  And  I  keep  the  wigwam  neat  and 
clean,  and  look  after  the  papoose." 

"  You  couldn't  do  a  better  job,"  said  Erhart 
aggressively. 

Erhart  came  up  to  stay  a  week,  but  he  stayed 
a  month,  in  fact  till  the  Ransomes  returned  to 
town,  and  occupied  himself  in  making  a  bas- 
relief  of  Teresa's  head.  At  first  his  attitude 
toward  them  both  was  what  it  had  always  been 
— friendly  and  frank.  But  soon  he  began  to 
show  some  irritation  against  Basil.  He  devoted 
himself  obviously  to  Teresa,  tried  to  get  her  off 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  173 

on  long  walks  alone,  and  was  moody  and  bored 
when  Basil  was  of  the  party.  When  he  was 
alone  with  Teresa,  he  spent  most  of  his  time  in 
criticising  Basil.  He  declared  that  Basil  was 
volatile,  lazy ;  that  he  only  amused  himself  with 
work  and  life;  that  he  did  not  take  even  his 
wife  seriously  enough. 

"  He  suits  me,"  Teresa  said  calmly,  a  good  deal 
amused.  "  He's  a  charming  companion,  and  al- 
ways interesting.  And  I  can  assure  you  that 
he  takes  me  and  the  baby  with  the  utmost  se- 
riousness." 

"  But  he  leaves  you  alone  here  all  summer." 

"  He  had  to  make  some  money,  poor  dear. 
You've  no  idea  how  expensive  Ronald  is.  If 
you  think  he  wasn't  glad  to  get  here !  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  he  was.  He's  fond  of  you, 
I  think,  in  his  way." 

Teresa  smiled. 

"  He's  an  awfully  good  fellow,"  Erhart  pro- 
ceeded. "  It's  too  bad  his  habits  are  so  irregu- 
lar— bad  for  his  work  and  everything,  I  should 
think.  He's  got  some  talent,  and  if  he'd  only 
pitch  in  and  work " 

"  Once  for  all,  Basil  isn't  a  grub.  He  knows 
he'll  never  be  a  great  painter,  and  he's  too  much 
humour  to  take  himself  with  awful  seriousness. 
He  knows  perfectly  well  the  measure  of  his 
ability,  he  can  do  good  work  and  he  knows  it, 
but  what  he  cares  most  about  is  living." 


174  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Living?  "  grumbled  Erhart.  '( I  really  don't 
think  Basil's  way  of  living  is  admirable.  I  wish 
he  didn't  drink  at  all.  It's  no  wonder  he's  ner- 
vous and  irritable,  and  his  temper  bad." 

"  I  thought  you  liked  Basil,"  said  Teresa  de- 
murely. 

"I  do  like  him — very  much,  in  some  ways. 
And  that's  why  I  hate  to  see  him  wasting  him- 
self so.  It  would  be  a  lot  better  for  you  if  he 
worked  more  regularly  and  successfully.  I  don't 
think  he  does  as  much  as  he  might  for  you. 
You're  the  sort  of  woman  that  luxury  suits,  you 
need  it.  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  pleasure 
to  give  it  to  you." 

Teresa  put  a  shade  of  melancholy  into  her  far- 
away gaze.  "My  tastes  are  very  simple,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  that's  because  you're  really  very  sweet 
and  kind,  and  you  never  worry  people;  I've  no- 
ticed that.  But  all  beautiful  women  need  a  set- 
ting, and  they  all  want  it,  too,  if  they  haven't 
got  it.  When  a  man's  lucky  enough  to  be  mar- 
ried to  a  woman  like  you,  he  ought  to  live  up 
to  it.  Basil's  a  good  fellow,  an  interesting  fel- 
low, but  I  don't  think  he  deserves  you,  really." 

Teresa's  amusement  in  this  conversation  was 
so  great  that  she  repeated  it  word  for  word  to 
Basil.  Basil  was  not  at  all  amused. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  the  devil  he  means  by 
that  sort  of  talk,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  call  it  very 
friendly,  abusing  me  like  that  to  you.  He's 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  175 

making  love  to  you,  that's  what  it  is.  I've  no- 
ticed lately  that  he  doesn't  want  me  around.  I 
like  his  nerve !  " 

"  Don't  quarrel  with  him,"  said  Teresa,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Quarrel !  Of  course  not.  Only  I  must  say  I 
don't  like  it.  It's  all  right  for  him  to  admire 
you — I  like  men  to  admire  you — but  I  don't 
see  why  he  should  turn  against  me.  It's  con- 
foundedly unpleasant — but  I  never  did  like  the 
fellow  much  anyway." 

"  He  isn't  the  most  subtle  or  the  best-man- 
nered person  I  know,"  murmured  Teresa.  "  But 
he  means  no  harm." 

"  Doesn't  he?  He  doesn't  mean  any  good, 
either,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

"  Oh,  yes — he  wants  to  reform  your  habits,  and 
make  you  ambitious,  and  me  rich." 

"  The  devil  he  does.  He  wants  to  make  you 
discontented  with  me." 

"  Well,  he  can't.  So  you  needn't  worry.  Don't 
take  him  seriously,  or  I'll  never  tell  you  an- 
other thing." 

"  Yes,  you  will !  You'll  tell  me  everything, 
or  I'll  choke  the  life  out  of  you ! "  And  Basil 
playfully  clasped  his  hands  about  her  throat. 

Teresa  laughed. 

"  It's  pure  self-indulgence  for  me  to  tell  you 
everything,  though  at  times  I  think  it's  unwise. 
In  this  case,  for  instance.  You  don't  like  Erhart 


17G  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

as  much  as  you  did  before.  I've  done  a  wrong  to 
him  in  telling  you.  But  I  like  so  much  to  feel 
that  you  know  everything,  and  that  everything 
is  clear  between  us,  at  least  on  my  side,  that  I 
don't  care.  I  am  immoral  in  my  honesty.  Only 
you  mustn't  show  that  I've  told  you,  you  know. 
That  would  be  immoral  of  you" 

"  Oh,  I  won't,  of  course.  Only  don't  let  Er- 
hart  make  love  to  you." 

"Erliart!  I  should  say  not.  You're — un- 
pleasant, Basil." 

"  No,  I'm  not  jealous,"  he  said,  laughing. 
"  Only,  if  any  man  makes  love  to  you,  I'd  like 
it  to  be  some  fellow  I  like,  you  know — some 
really  good  man.  And  that  doesn't  mean  you're 
to  encourage  him — at  least  not  much.  Other- 
wise I  don't  mind  at  all." 

"  How  generous  of  you ! "  said  Teresa,  with 
sarcasm. 

There  was  now  often  a  tinge  of  sharpness  in 
her  tone  toward  Basil.  She  knew  that  he  had 
his  reserves.  He  had  been  as  diplomatic  as 
possible  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Perry;  but  his 
practical  wisdom  had  not  quite  deceived  Teresa's 
instinct.  She  knew  there  was  something  he  had 
not  told  her — but  she  felt  also  that,  whatever 
it  might  be,  it  was  not  very  important.  She 
could  not  be  deceived  in  Basil's  feeling  for  her- 
self; and  she  was  learning  to  fight  against  her 
disposition  to  take  seriously  everything  relat- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  ITT 

ing  to  him.  In  spite  of  his  essential  simplicity, 
in  spite  of  his  love  for  her,  there  was,  she  felt 
dimly,  too  much  in  him,  in  life  with  him,  that 
might  give  her  pain.  She  tried,  therefore,  to 
attain  something  of  his  own  ease,  of  that  quality 
which  would  have  been  lightness  if  his  essential 
force,  his  reality,  his  will,  had  been  less;  but 
which  now  seemed  to  her  more  an  enviable  buoy- 
ancy and  power  of  resistance  to  the  ills  of  life. 


y 

ONE  night  in  the  early  winter  a  party  of 
people  started  out,  after  dining  at  the  Ran- 
some's  flat,  on  a  slumming  expedition.  The 
affair  had  been  arranged  for  Alice  Blackley's 
benefit;  Alice  was  more  eager  than  ever  to  see 
life,  and  she  thought  she  would  like  to  see  it 
in  undress.  She  had  confided  to  Teresa  lately 
that  she  was  tired  of  artists  (except  Basil,  of 
course),  and  that  she  did  not  believe  they  were 
any  more  interesting,  when  you  knew  them,  than 
other  people.  However,  Erhart  was  of  the  pres- 
ent party,  which  contained  besides  only  Basil 
and  Teresa,  for  Erhart  was  anxious  to  please 
Mrs.  Blackley,  having  an  eye  always  to  the 
commercial  side  of  his  profession ;  and  Basil  had 
amiably  brought  the  two  together. 

It  was  late  when  they  started,  the  two  women 
in  quiet,  dark  dresses,  appropriate  for  a  pure 
tour  of  inspection.  They  went  first  into  the 
Tenderloin,  to  two  or  three  music-halls,  and  a 
place  where  coffee  and  cigarettes  and  Turkish 
furnishings  competed  with  the  inevitable  whisky. 

The  music-halls  were  noisy,  glaring  with  elec- 
tric light,  and  filled  with  a  crowd  of  men  and 
girls,  sitting  or  moving  about  the  little  tables, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  170 

whose  gaiety  seemed  as  hard  and  tliin  as  the 
light's  blue  flare.  The  tough  faces  of  the  wait- 
ers, the  careless  or  determined  cheerfulness  of 
the  women,  the  bored  or  excited  look  of  the  men 
of  widely  varying  types,  the  perpetual  drinking, 
all  mixed  together  in  a  mirage  of  which  pleasure 
was  the  least  discoverable  element.  Some  of  the 
girls  were  very  pretty,  many  of  them  were  young, 
most  of  them  well-dressed;  and  all  tried  to  dif- 
fuse about  themselves  an  atmosphere  of  reckless 
life,  zest,  enjoyment.  But  seen  in  the  mass,  all 
these  various  attempts  resulted  in  one  great  ef- 
fect of  sham. 

Alice's  large  eyes  studied  the  scene  intently. 
She  was  so  much  interested  that  it  was  difficult 
to  get  her  away ;  yet  she  had  a  blank  look,  too. 

"  I  thought  it  would  have  been  more  exciting," 
she  said.  "  Don't  they  dance,  or  anything?  " 

The  Turkish  coffee  place,  with  its  dimmer 
lights  and  languid  couples,  she  thought  more 
interesting;  but  still  her  deer-like  eyes  looked 
vainly  about  for  something  she  did  not  see ;  still 
she  seemed  perplexed.  "  Is  this  really  life?  "  she 
seemed  to  ask.  "Are  these  the  haunts  of  vice? 
Are  these  people  really  the  horrid  people  we've 
come  out  to  see?  And  if  so,  why  are  they  not 
more  spectacular?  " 

From  the  Tenderloin  they  crossed  to  the  Bow- 
ery, and  walked  slowly  down  the  broad  street, 
howling  with  the  noise  of  the  cars,  bright  with 


180  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

electricity,  crowded  with  undistinguished  peo- 
ple. From  innumerable  saloons  and  ten-cent 
shows  came  the  tinkling  strains  of  mechanical 
music.  All  the  small  shops  which  catered  to  the 
needs  of  the  undistinguished  were  open,  to  meet 
their  customers'  leisure  hours,  and  so  the  broad, 
dirty  sidewalk  lay  in  one  continuous  glare  of 
light. 

They  went  into  one  music-hall — a  bare,  un- 
tidy room,  with  a  few  men  sitting  over  their 
beer,  and  on  the  platform  a  stout,  middle-aged 
woman,  in  short  skirts,  rouge,  and  a  picture  hat, 
singing  a  sentimental  song  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  cracked  piano.  Several  girls  walked  about, 
talking  to  the  sallow,  stolid  men.  One  stood 
alone  near  the  piano.  She  was  conspicuous  in 
her  solitude,  and  also  because,  for  all  the  loose 
coat  that  hid  her  figure,  it  could  be  seen  that 
she  was  about  to  bear  a  child.  One  of  the  men 
pointed  a  thumb  at  her  over  his  shoulder,  and 
said  something  to  his  companion;  they  both 
laughed.  The  girl  smiled,  with  a  piteous  at- 
tempt at  bravado. 

Teresa  hurried  her  party  out  of  the  place. 
Basil  took  them  next  to  a  saloon  where  he  ex- 
pected to  find  an  acquaintance  of  his,  an  ex- 
prize-fighter,  whose  reputation  for  wit  extended 
up  and  down  and  even  beyond  the  Bowery.  The 
saloon  was  crowded  and  noisy,  and  a  blast  of 
foul  language  met  them  as  they  entered.  Basil 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  181 

hastily  extracted  his  man,  who  saluted  him  with 
a  "  Hello,  bloke ! "  Then  the  five  went  to  have 
"  chop  suey  "  at  a  Chinese  restaurant  to  which 
the  ex-prize-fighter  led  them  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  knew  his  world,  and  was  quite  indif- 
ferent to  any  other. 

He  was  a  small,  wiry  man,  collarless,  rather 
drunk,  with  a  sallow  face,  hard  as  steel,  in  which 
smouldered  two  half-extinct  black  eyes.  Scarcely 
a  muscle  of  his  face  moved  when  he  spoke.  He 
slid  his  words  out  of  the  corner  of  his  thin  im- 
mobile, lips,  and  they  rapped  with  an  emphasis 
like  that  of  metal  on  metal.  His  eyes  were  per- 
fectly expressionless  as  he  observed  the  various 
members  of  the  party.  He  had  seen  innumerable 
slumming  parties,  and  while  he  was  quite  willing 
to  talk  to  any  of  them  for  the  sake  of  a  supper, 
drink,  and  a  few  dollars  at  the  end  of  the  even- 
ing, their  world  did  not  interest  him.  He  patron- 
ised them  as  easily  as  he  did  the  Chinese  waiters 
in  the  small  room  up  a  dirty  flight  of  stairs, 
where  he  selected  the  best  table,  and  issued  his 
curt  orders.  The  two  Chinese,  in  loose  linen 
coats  and  flapping  slippers,  brought  rice,  tea, 
and  the  curious  mixture  of  veal,  bamboo-shoots, 
and  unknown  condiments  which  figured  on  the 
sign  outside.  The  prize-fighter  addressed  to 
them  a  few  words  in  their  own  tongue,  and  a 
shade  which  might  have  been  a  smile  passed  over 
their  faces,  immovable  as  his  own. 


182  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Then  he  took  the  big  bowl  of  rice  and  a  pair  of 
chop-sticks,  put  the  chop-sticks  first  into  his 
mouth,  then  into  the  rice,  and  passed  the  bowl 
round  the  table.  Rice  was  generally  declined, 
but  the  party  tried  eating  the  chop  suey  with 
their  bamboo  sticks.  The  prize-fighter  managed 
his  deftly,  and  endeavoured  to  instruct  the 
others. 

"  You've  got  'em  by  the  wrong  end,  see?  Hold 
yem  so,"  he  said  to  Alice. 

She  persisted  in  her  own  way,  however,  and  he 
said  with  indifference : 

"All  right,  Sis,  what  you  don't  know  won't 
hurt  you." 

Then,  on  Erhart's  lead,  he  began  to  talk  about 
a  recent  prize-fight.  Erhart  described  to  the 
rest  of  them,  with  aesthetic  enthusiasm,  the  mar- 
vellous effect  of  the  pink  bodies  of  the  men,  seen 
through  a  cloud  of  dust;  and  the  ex-professional 
listened  cynically. 

"  I'm  going  to  model  Young,  the  light-weight," 
exclaimed  Erhart.  "I  got  him  to  promise  to 
pose  for  me.  I  can  do  a  bully  thing  of  the 
fighter!" 

"What's  the  good  of  that?"  demanded  the 
other.  "  If  you  want  to  make  a  statoo,  you'd 
ought  to  take  the  champion.  You  make  a  good 
likeness  of  him,  and  I  tell  you,  young  feller, 
every  saloon  in  the  country'd  take  a  copy.  You 
don't  know  your  own  business." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  183 

Basil  changed  the  topic  and  asked  after  the 
prize-fighter's  wife. 

"  About  the  same,"  he  answered.  "  A  doc  told 
her  she  had  consumption,  and  she'd  ought  to  go 
to  the  country.  But  she  won't  go  and  leave  me 
for  fear  I'd  get  drunk  too  much." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  with  her,  then?  "  enquired 
Alice. 

"  Me  in  the  country?  What  in  hell  would  I 
do  in  the  country?"  he  replied  contemptuously. 
"  There  ain't  no  better  air  than  there  is  right  here 
on  the  Bowery — it's  as  good  as  Fifth  Av-noo  air 
any  day,  mind  that,  Sis." 

Alice  looked  at  Basil  and  giggled.  Basil 
smiled  wearily.  He  had  been  very  silent  all 
the  evening,  and  wrhen  he  was  not  talking 
his  face  looked  gloomy.  Teresa,  too,  seemed 
oppressed.  She  felt  as  though  she  were  at 
the  bottom  of  some  vast  slough,  where  un- 
pleasant creatures  of  all  sorts  swarmed,  living 
their  pathetic  lives.  The  perfect  content  of  the 
prize-fighter  with  his  particular  spot  in  the 
slough  was  illuminating,  yet  it  did  not  lighten 
the  impression  of  the  whole.  The  man  interested 
her.  She  studied  his  face,  but  did  not  try  to 
talk  to  him.  The  gulf  between  their  worlds  was 
too  wide,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  as  intoler- 
ant of  his  as  he  of  hers. 

He  began  presently  to  talk  about  politics  to 
the  two  men,  and  gave  a  racy  outline  of  the  Bow- 


184  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

ery's  sentiments  concerning  a  recent  municipal 
election.  In  the  midst  of  this,  on  a  hint  from 
Basil,  the  party  moved  on,  the  prize-fighter  lead- 
ing the  way.  They  walked  through  Chinatown — 
quaint,  dingy,  mysterious  shadow  of  the  East 
thrown  athwart  the  old  houses  of  the  Knicker- 
bockers— and  then  they  came  out  on  the  Bowery 
again,  and  went  into  another  drinking-place. 
This  was  full  of  sailors,  half  or  quite  drunk. 
There  were  a  number  of  young  girls,  shabbily 
dressed;  and  among  them  were  two  slight,  pretty 
creatures,  who  looked  not  older  than  sixteen. 
As  soon  as  they  had  taken  a  table,  and,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  form,  ordered  beer,  a  drunken  sailor  came 
up  to  their  party,  and  leaning  over  the  table  and 
fixing  a  pair  of  child-like,  sad  eyes  on  Teresa, 
began  a  long  story  of  his  sufferings  and  wrongs 
on  board  his  ship.  His  voice  was  so  pathetic,  his 
incoherent  unhappiness  so  convincing,  that  the 
two  women  listened,  quite  fascinated;  but  he  re- 
peated himself,  and  finally  lost  himself  in  a  maze 
of  words,  lurching  heavily  to  this  side  and  that; 
when  Basil  rose,  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led 
him  away  to  another  table,  gave  him  a  drink,  and 
left  him  murmuring  to  himself. 

Teresa  looked  about  the  room  as  though  in  a 
dream.  The  close  air,  the  smell  of  beer,  the  throng 
of  brutal  faces,  the  drunken,  lascivious  eyes,  the 
rough  words  caught  here  and  there,  made  up  an 
impression  of  naked  sordidness  so  complete  as  to 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  185 

pass  reality.  The  movements  of  the  one  waiter 
fascinated  her.  He  was  a  young  man,  slim  and 
powerfully  built,  with  a  face  almost  handsome, 
which  had  the  same  absolute  hardness  and  im- 
mobility that  marked  the  prize-fighter's.  He 
moved  quickly  amongst  the  crowd,  with  a  busi- 
ness-like, lordly  air,  his  eyes  everywhere  at  once. 
He  swept  off  half-filled  beer-glasses,  and  brought 
full  ones  without  being  asked,  balancing  a  tray 
in  each  hand.  And  twice  in  fifteen  minutes  he 
put  down  his  trays,  took  an  obstreperous  sailor 
by  the  collar  and  jerked  him  through  the  door 
of  the  place  into  the  street  without  moving  a 
muscle  of  his  face,  or  losing  for  an  instant  his 
business-like  calm. 

"  That's  the  bouncer,"  explained  Erhart  to 
Alice.  She  wanted  to  know  all  about  the 
bouncer,  whom  Basil  was  sketching  on  the  back 
of  a  letter;  but  she  was  even  more  interested  in 
the  two  young  girls,  and  at  her  request  Erhart 
asked  them  to  come  up  to  the  table,  and  gave 
them  some  beer.  They  were  not  at  all  shy. 
The  prettiest  at  once  began  to  talk  to  Teresa 
with  easy  frankness;  told  her  that  she  and  her 
friend  lived  in  a  room  together,  and  had  done  so 
for  two  years;  that  she  was  a  morphine-fiend; 
and  she  showed,  with  a  certain  pride,  her  arm, 
covered  with  punctures.  Her  face  was  round 
and  delicately  coloured,  without  a  touch  of  pow- 
der or  paint.  She  had  large,  blue  eyes,  and  curl- 


186  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

ing,  brown  hair.  The  other  girl  was  paler,  more 
nervous,  but  almost  as  pretty.  Neither  was  over 
seventeen.  The  nervous  girl  slipped  away  in  a 
few  moments,  and  sat  down  at  a  table  with  a 
sailor.  Teresa  was  still  talking  with  the  other, 
when  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  a  disturbance 
began.  The  bouncer  leaped  to  the  fray,  and 
ejected  two  individuals;  but  in  a  moment  the 
room  was  in  an  uproar.  The  crowd  surged  down 
toward  the  door,  overturning  tables  and  chairs; 
every  second  man  drew  a  knife  or  pistol.  Basil, 
Erhart,  and  the '  prize-tighter  pushed  the  three 
women  toward  the  wall,  and  made  a  buffer  be- 
tween them  and  the  crowd ;  but  in  spite  of  their 
efforts  they  were  caught  in  the  jam  and  forced 
under  a  hail  of  broken  glass,  toward  the  one  nar- 
row entrance.  Basil  stretched  out  his  arms  on 
either  side  of  Teresa,  and  with  vicious  digs  of  his 
elbows  and  fists,  tried  to  protect  her.  Gleaming 
eyes  turned  toward  him,  and  one  man  lifted  a 
knife.  They  were  crushed  in  the  shouting,  heav- 
ing mass.  Teresa,  half-suffocated,  almost  lost 
consciousness,  but  fear  for  Basil  sustained  her. 
In  a  final,  fierce  stampede  they  were  pushed 
through  the  door. 

When  they  found  themselves  in  the  street,  and 
succeeded  in  reaching  the  other  three,  it  was  dis- 
covered that  Erhart  had  a  deep  knife-cut  in  the 
arm,  and  by  common  consent  the  expedition 
broke  up.  The  Eansomes  took  Alice  home.  She 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  187 

was  pleased  by  the  evening;  talked  a  good  deal 
about  the  two  young  girls,  and  the  possibility  of 
reforming  them,  or  at  least  of  giving  them  some 
good  clothes,  so  that  they  would  have  a  better 
chance. 

Teresa  could  not  get  to  sleep  that  night.  When 
she  closed  her  eyes  the  room  was  peopled  by  the 
dreadful  faces  she  had  seen.  The  drunken 
sailor,  the  "  bouncer,"  the  girl  at  whom  those 
men  had  laughed,  the  pretty  young  girl  with  the 
spotted  arm,  stood  out  on  a  background  of  sod- 
den, diseased,  malevolent  human  wrecks.  This 
wras  worse  than  the  sham  mirth  of  the  Tender- 
loin ;  perhaps  it  wras  the  reality  behind  the  sham. 
The  figures  all  whirled  round  as  though  in  a 
drunken  dance,  and  behind  them  she  seemed  to 
see  uncounted  myriads  of  other  figures,  all  driven 
on  blindly,  all  mad,  broken,  blighted. 

Basil  had  given  her  his  sketch  of  the  "  boun- 
cer "  as  they  came  home.  She  had  seen  in  his  eyes 
that  night  not  only  gloom  and  weariness,  but  also 
the  impersonal  interest  in  the  scene  before  him 
that  meant  a  stirring  of  his  impulse  to  expression. 
He  would  put  them  all  down  on  paper — those 
pathetic  girls,  those  brutal  or  stupid  men — all 
that  complex  of  misery,  all  that  waste  of  life. 
And  it  would  mean  to  him  just  fact — just  what 
«X  what  must  be. 

In  her  present  mood  she  revolted,  as  she  often 
did,  against  his  acceptation  of  the  world,  invol- 


188  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

ving  even,  it  seemed  to  her,  a  certain  pleasure  in 
its  hardness,  its  inequalities.  Perhaps  this  was 
the  artistic  interest,  the  dramatic  interest;  but 
to  Teresa  now  it  seemed  cruel  to  enjoy  the  sight 
of  such  a  world,  to  use  it  as  material  for  art. 
The  impersonal  side  of  Basil  presented  itself  to 
her  as  a  cool,  observing  eye,  a  firm  noting  hand ; 
apart  from  his  own  human  interests,  he  was  not 
moved — the  mass  of  misery  did  not  move  him. 
He  dissociated  himself  from  it  completely.  His 
attitude  was :  "  I  did  not  make  this  world — I'm 
not  responsible  for  it — I  can't  help  it.  I  can 
only  observe  it,  recognise  it  for  what  it  is — and 
make  my  own  particular  life  out  of  it,  a  satisfac- 
tion to  myself."  Basil  was  selfish,  egotistic,  hard 
— but  he  loved  her,  and  she  loved  him.  A  sudden 
need  to  be  near  him  came  upon  her.  She  got  up 
and  went  into  his  room. 

The  winter  dawn  was  faintly  beginning.  He 
was  asleep.  His  relaxed  face  looked  sad,  but 
sleep  gave  it  also  a  curiously  young  expression, 
a  strange  beauty.  She  crept  into  the  bed  beside 
him ;  half  waking,  he  put  his  arm  about  her,  and 
murmured  something  softly.  They  had  quar- 
relled bitterly  the  day  before.  But  now,  com- 
forted to  the  soul  by  his  nearness,  and  the  word 
of  endearment  that  had  come  unconsciously 
from  the  deep  feeling  that  united  them,  from  the 
depths  below  all  surface  storms,  Teresa,  too, 
could  sleep. 


VI 

DIFFICULTIES  had  thickened  upon  them 
this  winter.  They  had  a  larger  flat,  in  a 
more  salubrious  (and  expensive)  neighbourhood, 
and  three  servants.  The  baby  had  made  this 
difference,  with  the  result  that  they  felt  poor. 
Teresa,  with  a  pang,  had  given  up  her  bachelor 
rooms,  for  the  work  she  was  now  able  to  do  did 
not  justify  her  in  keeping  them.  But  the  rent 
of  Basil's  studio  was  high,  and  he  had  not  sold 
anything  lately,  except  the  work  he  had  done 
for  Mrs.  Perry.  His  book  of  drawings  had  been 
published,  with  a  definite,  but  not  a  money  suc- 
cess. The  publishers  had  wanted  to  call  it  "  The 
City  Toilers,"  and  by  including  mainly  types  of 
honest  misery,  to  give  it  a  sentimental  air  of 
pity.  But  Basil  called  it  "  City  Types,"  and  put 
into  it  what  he  considered  his  best  work,  irre- 
spective of  subject.  The  result  could  not  please 
the  sentimental  public,  but  it  pleased  Basil,  and 
also  Teresa,  who  desired  that  his  artistic  ability 
should  be  recognised.  But  it  did  not  bring  in 
much  money.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Basil 
felt  the  pressure  of  money  needs.  The  demands 
of  his  household  seemed  to  grow  steadily,  and 
his  income  was  comparatively  a  fixed  quantity. 

189 


190  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

He  had  never  counted  on  making  money,  but 
now  he  was  obliged  to  speculate  on  his  work,  and 
this  brought  him  face  to  face  with  his  own  prac- 
tical limitations.  It  was  a  standing  grievance 
that  Teresa  was  not  economical.  But  Teresa, 
though  she  honestly  tried,  could  not  be — at  least 
not  more  than  a  few  days  at  a  time.  Then  she 
forgot  about  it.  She  was  not  extravagant,  but 
the  daily  worry  of  overseeing  cheating  trades- 
men and  servants,  as  well  as  watching  the  baby 
and  the  nurse,  and  seeing  that  Basil's  clothes 
were  in  repair,  and  his  meals  on  time,  was  sure 
to  overpass  at  some  point  the  limits  of  her  do- 
mestic capacity. 

They  were  gayer,  too,  this  winter  than  ever. 
Teresa,  after  her  year  of  the  baby,  had  a  craving 
for  people,  a  quite  new  delight  in  going  out,  the 
more  so  since  she  was  more  beautiful  and  more 
admired.  And  gaiety  meant  expense — clothes, 
dinners,  cabs — and  less  work.  It  meant,  also, 
more  or  less  emotional  disturbance.  Basil's 
theory  that  he  was  not  of  a  jealous  temperament 
had  had  a  good  test,  and  had  been  found  not  to 

/-  hold  water. 

Among  the  people  that  they  saw  most  of,  do- 
mestic happiness  was  regarded  as  an  amusing 
or  pathetic  myth,  as  you  happened  to  take  it.  It 

'was  a  mirage,  and  the  traveller  in  the  desert,  if 
he  could  not  help  pursuing  it,  always  recognised 
his  mistake.  He  did  not  reach  the  mirage ;  but  he 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  191 

might  find  a  pleasant  oasis  or  two  by  the  way. 
An  apparently  complete  frankness  about  their 
domestic  relations  was  also  the  rule  in  this  so- 
ciety. People  talked  about  their  wives  or  hus- 
bands as  amusingly  as  they  could,  and  quite 
without  sentiment.  The  pose  of  the  successful 
ones  was  that  they  were  simple  good  friends, 
and  didn't  interfere  with  one  another.  Behind 
this  mask,  which  Basil  and  Teresa  assumed  also, 
went  on,  no  doubt,  many  a  drama  like  their  own ; 
and  many  a  secret  believer  in  the  myth  struggled 
and  strove  to  reach  what  he  considered  to  be  real 
waters,  spreading  cool  and  peaceful,  and  real 
protection  from  the  glaring,  grinding  world. 
Peace  was,  perhaps,  not  to  be  hoped  for  in  the 
relation  of  two  civilised  and  youthful  people 
who  had  the  ideal  of  freedom  and  enjoyment. 
The  world  was  too  much  with  them  for  any  real 
seclusion  of  spirit  to  be  possible.  But  they  had 
the  ever-present  sense  of  life,  an  unfailing  inter- 
est in  one  another.  They  might  quarrel,  but  they 
were  never  dull,  and  neither  had  as  yet  a  need 
for  any  other  one  person.  They  had  days  of  per- 
fect, simple  happiness,  when  material  difficulties 
were  ignored,  and  their  real  relation  seemed  the 
only  thing  that  mattered ;  days  of  frank,  wordly 
companionship,  when  they  talked  frivolously  of 
serious  things,  and  a  light  way  of  taking  the 
world  made  it  all  gay  and  amusing.  And  they 
had  their  black  days,  when  all  went  wrong,  when 


192  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

they  barely  spoke  to  one  another  or  communi- 
cated by  means  of  notes ;  when  they  accused  one 
another  of  self-indulgence,  selfishness,  egotism; 
when  Teresa  bitingly  recalled  Basil's  sensual 
weaknesses,  and  Basil  openly  regretted  his  bache- 
lor freedom,  and  assured  Teresa  that  she  was 
never  meant  for  a  wife.  These  discords  were  fre- 
quent, but  they  never  lasted  long;  neither  could 
stand  the  strain.  Basil  could  not  work  under 
it,  and  it  blackened  the  entire  firmament  for 
Teresa.  It  ended  usually  in  a  passionate  recon- 
ciliation, wherein  Basil  ardently  told  Teresa 
that  he  could  not  live  without  her,  nor  with  any 
other  woman ;  and  she  promised  to  be  domestic ; 
and  then  the  sky  was  blue,  and  the  sunlight 
golden,  and  a  heavenly  breath  descended  upon 
them,  and  life,  youth,  and  love  seemed  divine. 

Their  latest  quarrel  had  been  ostensibly  about 
household  affairs.  The  monthly  bills  had  come 
in,  and  seemed  to  Basil  enormous.  And  the 
nurse  had  been  discovered  feeding  Ronald 
Grange  at  an  undue  hour.  All  Teresa's  faults 
as  a  housewife  were  once  more  gone  over,  and 
Basil,  with  his  usual  vigour,  had  asserted  that 
she  cared  nothing  for  the  household,  for  the  baby, 
or  for  him,  but  only  for  her  own  amusement. 
The  real  reason  for  the  explosion  was  that  Ter- 
esa, on  the  previous  day,  had  gone  out  with  her 
most  devoted  admirer  in  his  automobile,  and 
lunched  with  him  in  the  country.  He  was  a 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  193 

I 

Southerner  named  Fairfax-;  he  had  made  a  for- 
tune in  lumber;  he  was  good-looking  and  had 
the  caressing  manner  of  his  kind  toward  women ; 
and  for  several  months  now  he  had  been  coming 
constantly  to  see  Teresa.  His  time  was  about 
equally  divided  between  the  South  and  New 
York;  and  when  he  was  away  he  wrote  to  her. 
She  always  showed  the  letters  to  Basil;  they 
were  friendly,  gay,  and  interested.  She  admitted 
that  she  liked  Fairfax  very  much ;  that  she  found 
i  him  amusing  and  charming.  Basil  said  that  he 
liked  her  friendship  with  Fairfax ;  it  was  in  line 
with  all  his  ideas.  He  said  once :  "  It's  more  ex- 
citing to  drive  a  restive  team  than  a  quiet  one; 
only  you  must  look  out  they  don't  get  away." 
His  own  interest  in  his  wife  seemed  to  increase. 
It  had  lost  the  quiet  of  the  first  year;  it  was 
more  like  the  perpetual  unrest  of  courtship.  Her 
successes,  her  gaiety,  intensified  the  appeal  of 
her  beauty  to  him.  He  seemed,  too,  to  be  less\ 
sure  of  her,  and  this  pleased  Teresa,  and  added 
to  the  light  excitement  of  their  life. 

On  the  morning  after  their  slumming  expedi- 
tion they  took  their  coffee  together  amicably; 
Basil  was  gentle,  but  gloomy.  Teresa  questioned 
him  keenly ;  he  resisted ;  but  at  last  his  real  feel- 
ing came  out,  and  he  confessed  to  a  torturing 
jealousy. 

"  I  didn't  know  I  had  it  in  me,"  he  said  sav- 
agely— angry,  not  with  her,  but  with  himself. 


194  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  And  I  can't  stand  it.  It  makes  me  feel  weak — 
mentally  and  physically.  It  turns  me  sick.  I 
think  I'm  wrong,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  believe 
the  thing  is  stronger  than  I  am.  You're  the  only 
person  in  the  world,  Teresa,  that  can  really  make 
me  suffer.  And  I  believe  you  could  half-kill  me !  " 

His  anger  and  resentment  of  his  own  irration- 
ality touched  Teresa,  his  emotion  pleased  her, 
but  the  practical  consequences  thereof  rather 
vexed  her. 

"  I've  only  done  what  you  told  me  to  do,"  she 
said  plaintively.  "  You  said  you  wanted  me  to 
have  my  friends  among  men,  just  as  you  have 
among  women.  I  didn't  make  scenes  for  you — 
at  least  not  serious  ones — when  you  were  so 
much  with  Mrs.  Perry.  And  yet  I  had  more  rea- 
son to,  for  she  was  making  love  to  you,  and  Jack 
doesn't  make  love  to  me — not  seriously." 

"  Seriously !  There  it  is,  then — he  does  make 
love  to  you.  I  knew  it.  His  whole  manner  to 
you  shows  it." 

"  Oh,  he's  Southern,  you  know,  and  they  have 
that  gallant  way.  My  father  had  it — it's  a  tradi- 
tion. He  does  like  me,  I'm  sure — perhaps  he's 
a  little  bit  epris — but  you  always  said  you  liked 
men  to  be  fond  of  me,  so  long  as " 

"Yes,  but  you  like  him!  You  wouldn't  want 
to  spend  hours  alone  with  him  if  you  didn't." 

"  Of  course  I  like  him,  silly  old  thing !  He's 
charming." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  195 

Basil  groaned.  "  Women  have  a  terrific  ad- 
vantage to  us,"  he  said  viciously.  "  Nothing 
I  can  do  can  affect  you  very  deeply,  unless  I 
should  fall  in  love  with  another  woman,  and  I 
can't  do  that.  But  you  could  very  easily  nearly 
kill  me" 

"  Then  it's  your  own  fault  if  we  have  that  ad- 
vantage," said  Teresa  calmly.  "  First,  you  carry 
on  yourselves  in  such  a  fashion  that,  as  you  say, 
we  can't  take  your  lapses  seriously.  And  then 
you  put  such  terrific  emphasis  on  the  slightest 
lapse  on  our  part.  Why  do  you  put  the  weapon 
into  our  hands,  and  then  provoke  us,  if  you  don't 
want  to  get  hurt?" 

"  Provocation,  as  you  call  it,  oughtn't  to 
count.  A  woman  ought  to  be  strong  enough  to 
stand  for  herself,  for  what  she  really  deeply 
wants,  without  being  influenced  by  another  per- 
son's acts." 

"  Two  people  can't  live  together  intimately 
without  influencing  one  another,  and  deeply. 
And  especially  a  woman,  for  her  character  isn't 
formed  till  she's  married.  Of  course,  I  can  see 
how  the  other  person  would  like  to  feel  that  what 
he  does  counts  for  nothing,  for  so  he  gets  rid  of 
all  responsibility — only  it  doesn't  work  that 
way." 

"  The  Orientals  manage  these  things  better," 
said  Basil  gloomily.  "  A  Mohammedan  can  take 
as  many  women  into  his  house  as  he  can  support, 


19G  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

and  they're  all  protected  and  cared  for,  and  re- 
spectable. And  if  they're  unfaithful,  he  can  bow- 
string them.  That's  the  right  method.  Monog- 
amy is  a  foolish  idea,  and  we  waste  an  enormous 
amount  of  life  in  trying  to  live  up  to  it.  The 
Japanese  are  infinitely  more  sane  than  we  are 
about  the  whole  business.  Sex  ought  to  be  di- 
,  vorced  from  emotion.  They  don't  belong  to- 
gether. We've  sentimentalised  the  thing  till  we 
don't  know  where  we  stand.  It's  all  the  fault 
of  feminism.  Women  naturally  sentimentalise 
it,  and  we've  let  them  set  the  tone  for  our  whole 
society,  till  we  can't  call  our  souls  or  bodies  our 
own.  It's  weakness,  and  gets  paid  out  as  weak- 
ness always  does.  We  belong  to  you  now,  you 
own  us,  and  you  make  us  feel  it." 

"  Poor  slaves !  "  mocked  Teresa.  "  Why  don't 
you  rise  and  assert  your  rights?  Put  us  back  in 
the  harem,  and  then  go  on  with  your  great  work 
of  civilising  the  world  in  peace.  I  daresay  we 
should  be  just  as  well  off." 

*'•'  I  think  you  would.  You  can't  be  men,  any- 
way, you  know,  and  in  our  society  you're  bound 
to  try  to  be,  more  or  less.  It's  all  wrong.  The 
line  ought  to  stand  where  it  was  drawn  for  all 
time,  sharp  and  clear.  Trying  to  rub  it  away  is 
folly." 

"  I  don't  try  to  be  a  man,"  murmured  Teresa. 
"  I  wouldn't  be  one  for  any  amount.  Poor,  fool- 
ish creatures." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  197 

"  Yes,  you  do  try.  You  want  the  same  free- 
dom  " 

"I  thought  we  agreed  the  ideal  was  equal 
freedom." 

"  So  it  would  be  if  women  were  capable  of  it, 
if  they  were  like  men,  capable  of  dissociating 
ideas  that  don't  really  belong  together.  But 
they're  not.  They  emotionalise  everything." 

"  Even  an  automobile  drive  and  a  sedate 
luncheon?  Keally,  you're  silly,  Basil." 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  he  admitted  darkly.  "  But 
I  can't  help  it." 

"  I  don't  think,  really,  that  it's  a  tremendous 
compliment  to  me — your  jealousy,"  said  Teresa 
coldly. 

"  No,  it  isn't.  But  it  isn't  the  other  thing 
either.  You're  so  much  alive,  Teresa!  And 
you're  beautiful,  and  you  love  admiration.  And 
really  I  feel  that  you  might  sometime  care  too 
much  for  someone  else." 

"  It's  no  use  arguing  with  a  feeling,"  said  Ter- 
esa. "  I  won't  go  out  again  with  Fairfax." 

Basil  took  her  in  his  arms,  in  a  wave  of  re- 
pentant emotion. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  You  shall  do  just  as 
you  want  to  do.  I  won't  deprive  you  of  any 
pleasure,  if  I  can  help  it.  I  believe  you  do  care 
a  little  for  me ! " 

Teresa  smiled  tenderly,  but  with  a  shade  of 
melancholy.  She  did  not  like  the  interruption 


198  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

of  her  friendship  with  Fairfax,  which  she  felt 
was  probably  inevitable.  It  seemed,  too,  like  a 
confession  of  defeat  in  the  course  they  had  meant 
their  marriage  to  take.  If  they  could  not  trust 
/  one  another  freely,  if  they  had  to  take  serious 
account  of  small  things,  and  manage  and  humour 
one  another,  what  became  of  her  ideal  of  free- 
dom and  frankness?  Teresa  did  not  want  to  give 
up  her  ideas  or  her  amusements — but  neither  did 
she  want  really  to  hurt  or  disturb  Basil.  The 
talk  left  her  troubled  and  melancholy. 


VII 

BASIL  himself  saved  the  situation.  That 
night  they  were  going  out  to  dinner,  and  in 
the  carriage  on  the  way  he  explicitly  denied 
what  he  had  said,  pronounced  it  only  a  mood, 
and  assured  Teresa  that  he  wanted  her  to  be  per- 
fectly free,  and  not  to  give  up  the  least  of  her 
amusements  because  of  an  unreasonable  feeling 
on  his  part.  He  admitted  emotionally  that  it  was 
unreasonable,  and  stated  his  entire  trust  in  her 
so  convincingly  that  Teresa's  spirits  rose  with  a 
leap. 

"  That's  all  right,  then — now  we're  ourselves 
again ! "  she  said  gaily.  "  I  didn't  quite  recog- 
nise you  in  the  role  of  Bluebeard!  You  give  me 
carte  blanche,  and  I  promise  I  shan't  want  to  look 
into  the  forbidden  cupboard !  " 

"  No,  don't  promise  anything — except  that 
you'll  always  like  me  better  than  anyone  else." 

"  I  needn't  promise  that — I  can't  help  it.  Life 
is  so  amusing  with  you,  Basil !  I  feel  so  gay  and 
young  to-night — all  the  worries  seem  little 
things.  The  baby  was  so  dear  to-day — he's  the 
most  intelligent  little  thing,  and  so  strong  and 
alive !  I'm  going  to  model  a  little  profile  of  him. 
Yes,  he  really  has  got  a  profile.  And  to  think  I 

199 


200  T  H  E    B  O  N  D 

didn't  want  him — what  a  fool  I  was!  .  .  . 
But  there's  a  good  side  to  not  wanting  things 
you  haven't  got,  and  idealising  them,  and  think- 
ing if  you  only  had  them,,  how  happy  you'd  be. 
I've  never  done  that.  It  always  seems  to  me  that 
if  I  can't  be  happy  with  what  I've  got,  I  can't 
anyway.  And  I  do  really  think  I've  got  all  there 
is  to  get  in  life — all  there  is  for  me.  ...  I 
might  like  a  little  more  money — but  nothing 
else!" 

Basil  held  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  and  lis- 
tened. 

"  You  like  excitement,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  a  little,  now  and  then — a  new  dress,  an 

interesting  talk But  I  don't  need  much,  do 

I,  now?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  You  wouldn't  like  to  have 
anything  cut  off." 

"  Well,  would  you?  " 

"  No — and  I  like  you  to  be  full  of  life,  as  you 
are.  You  wouldn't  interest  me  half  as  much  if 
you  were  different!  You  fascinate  me,  and  al- 
ways have.  Only  be  good — as  good  as  you  can !  " 

Teresa  did  not  protest  when  he  rumpled  her 
hair  in  a  quick  embrace.  She  laughed  gaily. 

"  Life  is  good,"  she  said  contentedly. 

The  dinner  was  gay,  and  too  large  for  general 
talk.  Basil  was  near  one  end  of  the  table,  and 
Teresa  near  the  other,  with  Fairfax  beside  her — 
a  provision  of  the  hostess.  Teresa  thoroughly 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  201 

enjoyed  her  tetc-a-t$te,  for  it  was  almost  that. 
She  knew  that  she  was  looking  wonderfully  well 
in  her  white  dress,  but  Fairfax's  praise  was  none 
the  less  welcome.  He  was  one  of  the  men  en- 
amoured of  women's  luxury,  and  she  was  aware 
that  he  would  have  liked  to  see  her  each  time  in 
a  new  dress,  and  arrayed  with  more  coquetry 
even  than  she  cared  to  use.  She  laughed  at  this 
trait  in  him — it  went  with  much  else  in  his  char- 
acter that  she  thought  amusing,  but  rather  des- 
picable. But  she  liked  his  more  masculine  side 
— his  energy,  ability,  and  clear-headedness.  He 
I  talked  about  men  and  affairs  with  incisive  force, 
and  had  a  lightly  cynical  attitude  toward  life  in 
general  which  went  rather  oddly  with  his  de- 
votional attitude  toward  women. 

He  was,  at  bottom,  thoroughly  conventional; 

and  part  of  Teresa's  pleasure  lay  in  shocking 

him.     He  had  from  the  first  been  amused  and 

interested  by  the  freedom  of  her  talk;  then  he 

had  taken  to  combating  lightly  her  ideas ;  but  as 

he  knew  her  better,  he  became  more  vehement  in 

his  protest.     He  thought  her  idea  of  marriage 

totally  wrong ;  and  he  had  been  horrified  at  learn- 

I  ing  the  extent  of  her  information  about  life  in 

1  general,  and  Basil's  responsibility  therein.    He, 

I  as  Teresa  pointed  out  to  him,  thoroughly  agreed 

j  with  her  Aunt  Sophy,  that  women  should  be 

!  protected  as  much  as  possible  from  knowledge 

outside  their  sphere. 


202  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Only  Aunt  Sophy  thinks  our  sphere  is  poli- 
tics, while  you  think  it's  domesticity,"  said 
Teresa. 

"  Of  course  I  think  it  is.  Her  home  and  so- 
ciety— what  more  does  any  woman  want?  " 

"  Ah,  society !  When  you  take  in  society,  you 
let  in  the  serpent,  and  its  wisdom !  Unless  you 
mean  just  an  occasional  tea-drinking,  or  a  dove 
luncheon.  Do  you  think  if  one's  to  have  any 
relations  with  men  and  women  one  doesn't  need 
all  the  knowledge  possible?  " 

"  You  have  your  instinct — that  can't  go 
wrong,"  said  the  bachelor. 

"  Oh,  can't  it !  You'd  reduce  us  to  the  rudi- 
ments, wouldn't  you?  Why  shouldn't  we  have 
the  amusement  of  contemplating  the  world  and 
people  as  they  really  are?  It's  the  most  instruct- 
ive spectacle  possible.  I  can  never  be  thank- 
ful enough  that  I  married  a  man  who  isn't 
afraid  of  reality,  for  me  any  more  than  for 
himself.  You  would  shut  your  wife  up  in  a 
toy  paradise,  with  everything  upholstered  in 
rose-colour." 

"  There  are  a  whole  lot  of  things  I  know  that 
my  wife  would  never  know,  you  may  depend  on 
that,"  Fairfax  responded  with  emphasis.  "  What 
nonsense,  imagining  that  a  man's  view  of  life 
and  a  woman's  can  ever  be  the  same !  " 

".And  can't  one  be  supposed  capable  of  taking 
to  some  degree  an  impersonal  view  of  life?  Can't 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  203 

one  forget  occasionally  that  one  is  a  woman,  and 
be  simply  an  intelligence?  " 

"  I  should  say  not !  What  do  you  make  of 
hundreds  of  generations  of  inherited  prejudices 
and  ways  of  feeling,  that  colour  your  thought 
unconsciously?  You  can't  get  rid  of  that  heri- 
tage for  an  instant.  .  .  .  You  couldn't  un- 
derstand a  man  if  you  tried  for  a  thousand 
years." 

" '  Wonderful  son,  that  can  so  astonish  a 
mother ' !  Do  you  think  I  shan't  understand  my 
son  when  he  grows  up?  " 

"  No,  you  won't,  and  if  you're  wise  you  won't 
try.  We  like  women  best  that  don't  pretend  to 
understand  us." 

"  '  We '?  Speak  for  yourself,  Jack.  There  are 
plenty  of  men  that  don't  believe  in  the  doll's 
house.  I  shall  see  that  Ronald  Grange,  when  he 
grows  up,  has  more  modern  ideas  than  you 
have ! "  And  Teresa  warbled  frivolously : 

" '  Woman  is  the  chosen 

Ornament  of  home — 
Man  is  what  the  beer  is, 
Woman  is  the  foam/  ': 

When  they  talked  ideas,  they  were  always  com- 
bative; and  in  his  sentimental  moods  as  well, 
Fairfax  showed  his  conviction  that  Teresa  was  a 
charming  creature,  married  to  the  wrong  sort  of 


204  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

man,  and  in  danger  of  being  spoiled.  Fairfax 
and  Basil  had  never  been  more  than  mere  ac- 
quaintances, and  neither  liked  the  other.  Ter- 
esa understood  that  a  mentally  conventional  man 
could  never  like  Basil;  and  she  was  entertained 
by  the  attempt  which  Fairfax,  like  most  of  the 
men  who  had  admired  her,  made  to  manufac- 
ture domestic  infelicity  for  her.  They  were  so 
sure  that  she  could  not  be  happy  with  a  man  like 
Basil ! 

Fairfax  on  this  evening  was  full  of  regrets  for 
his  impending  departure.  He  would  have  to  be 
away  from  New  York  for  two  weeks  on  business, 
he  said,  with  a  melancholy  look.  He  was  in  a 
mood,  half  of  pique  with  her,  half  of  more  lik- 
ing than  he  had  ever  shown.  Teresa  often 
glanced  down  the  table  at  Basil,  during  their 
talk,  but  could  never  discover  that  he  looked  at 
her.  She  thought  he  was  looking  tired  and  ex- 
cited; and  he  seemed  absorbed  in  his  neighbour, 
a  very  pretty  young  woman  whom  Teresa  did 
not  know.  Teresa  had  repeated  to  Fairfax 
Basil's  comment  on  some  remark  of  his  own,  and 
his  pique  was  due  to  this. 

"Do  you  tell  your  husband  every  earthly 
thing?  "  he  enquired. 

"  Everything !  "  said  Teresa  joyously. 

"  And  he  reads  your  letters,  too,  I  suppose." 

"  All  of  'em.    And  I  read  his." 

"You  think  you  do,  you  mean?" 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  205 

"  Yes,  I  mean  I  think  I  do ! " 

"What  childishness!  As  though  two  people 
could  really  keep  up  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Ah,  but  they  can.  And  I  assure  you  it's 
most  interesting." 

"  It  must  be.  But  do  people  never  tell  either 
of  you  things  that  are  not  meant  for  another 
person?  Or  don't  you  consider  confidences  bind- 
ing? Aren't  you  two  individuals  at  all,  but  only 
a  corporation?" 

"  Something  like  that,  I  think.  .  .  .  And 
you  know  real  confidences  are  rare — at  least  to 
me.  I  don't  care  about  them." 

"  Then  can  neither  of  you  have  a  friend  whose 
confidences  would  be  real,  and  whose  friendship 
would  be  for  you  as  an  individual,  not  for  you 
as  a  corporation?  " 

Teresa  reflected. 

"  Isn't  it  conceivable  that  a  person  might  care 
for  you,  and  mightn't  care  for  your  husband? 
And  that  he  mightn't  care  to  be  served  up 
for  that  enviable  person's  further  enjoyment? 
Wouldn't  you  have  any  loyalty  to  a  feeling  like 
that?  " 

"  It's  a  difficult  question ! "  sighed  Teresa. 
"Why  bother  about  such  things  now?  I  came 
in  such  a  gay  mood,  feeling  quite  happy  and 
frivolous !  Don't  spoil  all  my  pleasure." 

"  I  wish  I  felt  happy  and  frivolous.  Then  I 
suppose  I  might  add  to  it  instead  of  spoiling  it." 


THE     BOND 

"  Yes,  you  might.  What  is  the  good  of  being 
serious  at  dinner?  And  such  a  good  dinner,  too 
— but  not  better  than  our  lunch  the  other  day. 
I  did  enjoy  that," 

"  Did  you? "  Fairfax  looked  a  shade  more 
cheerful.  "  I'm  glad.  Perhaps  we  can  have  an- 
other when  I  come  back.  And  I'll  be  as  frivolous 
as  I  can.  I  need  to  be  frivolous  if  I'm  going  to 
amuse  two  people." 

He  came  back  to  that  again  and  again.  He  as- 
sured Teresa  that  her  idea  of  marriage  was  to- 
tally wrong — unsocial. 

"  Marriage  is  an  institution — a  part  of  the 
state,  of  the  organisation  of  society.  Two  peo- 
ple marry  really  for  the  purpose  of  helping  one 
another  socially,  I  mean  in  a  broad  sense;  of 
bringing  up  children.  The  mere  personal  rela- 
tion is  a  very  small  part  of  it.  The  feeling  with 
which  they  marry,  if  they're  in  love  with  each 
other,  doesn't  last,  can't  last.  It's  bound  to 
change.  They  ought  to  adapt  themselves  to  that 
change,  and  make  a  broader  relation  on  the  basis 
of  it — to  take  the  family  as  the  unit  of  their  in- 
terest, not  one  another." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you." 

"Well,  you  will,  some  day.  You'll  find  out 
that  it  doesn't  work.  Why  marry  at  all,  from 
your  point  of  view?  " 

"Because  it's  more  practical,  and  because 
common  interests,  and  children,  and  common 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  207 

social   relations    help    the    original    relation— 
they're  in  the  line  of  its  natural  growth." 

"  You  want  to  take  all  you  can  get  out  of  so- 
ciety, then,  and  not  give  in  return?  " 

"  I  do  give — I  give  children,  for  example.  But 
my  private  affairs  are  no  concern  of  society's. 
Conventions  are  only  made  to  be  broken.  Why 
shouldn't  I  have  my  own  way  of  breaking  them?  " 

"  If  you  hadn't  this  particular  convention, 
then,  you  admit  you'd  be  more  a  social  being." 

"  Yes,  but  I  shouldn't  be  so  happy." 

"You  risk  being  very  unhappy  sometime. 
That's  what  it  is  to  put  too  much  stress  on  one 
special  relation." 

Teresa  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  If  Allah  wills  it,"  she  said,  and  her  brilliant 
eyes  seemed  gaily  to  defy  fate. 


ym 

TERESA,  in  a  spirit  of  contradiction,  and  the 
heat  of  argument,  had  chosen  often  to  ex- 
aggerate the  completeness  with  which  she  and 
Basil  carried  out  that  idea  of  frankness.  She 
was  aware  of  Basil's  silences;  and  she  herself 
was  not  as  absolutely  frank  and  unreserved  as 
she  sometimes  assumed  to  be ;  but  this  arose  not 
from  her  wish,  but  from  the  impossibility  of 
translating  everything  into  terms  of  speech.  It 
would  have  been  impossible,  for  example,  to  re- 
peat all  of  her  talks  with  Fairfax,  and  as  these 
became  more  frequent  in  the  course  of  the  win- 
ter, the  impossibility  of  telling  all  led  her  to 
tell  little  or  nothing.  It  was  not,  however,  be- 
cause she  had  anything  definite  to  conceal;  but 
that  her  interest  in  him — and  he  did  interest  her, 
as  a  type  not  very  familiar  to  her — was  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  counter  to  her  interest  in  Basil.  The 
extent  was  slight,  and  did  not  touch  her  real  feel- 
ing; but  it  absorbed  a  good  deal  of  her  attention. 
Basil  was  working  hard  that  winter;  they  went 
out  a  good  deal;  and  they  spent  less  time  to- 
gether than  ever  before.  Teresa  was  less  jealous 
of  his  time.  She  was  a  little  more  worldly.  In- 
sensibly some  sort  of  a  veil  had  come  between 

208 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  209 

them — impalpable,  not  yet  recognised  by  either 
of  them,  but  the  natural  result  of  interests  super- 
ficially divided.  They  lunched  and  dined  fre- 
quently apart.  Teresa  ceased  to  question  Basil, 
and  though,  of  his  own  accord,  he  generally  gave 
an  account  of  himself,  he  made  one  important 
reservation.  He  was  seeing  Mrs.  Perry  often, 
and  saying  nothing  to  Teresa  about  that  lady. 
Harold  Perry,  who  played  so  small  a  part  in  his 
wife's  drama,  was  away  all  that  winter,  looking 
up  Aztec  remains.  Isabel,  therefore,  was  free  to 
investigate  religion.  But  that  interest  was  tem- 
porarily in  the  background.  Basil  had  taken  its 
place. 

• .  •  •  •  • 

One  day  he  went  to  lunch  with  her,  as  he 
was  expected  to  do  several  times  a  week.  He 
had  broken  a  dinner  engagement  with  her  two 
days  before,  at  the  last  moment,  in  order  to  dine 
alone  with  Teresa ;  and  the  excuse  which  he  gave 
did  not  satisfy  Isabel.  She  was  in  the  mood,  in- 
creasingly frequent  with  her,  of  dissatisfaction. 

"Well,  you  know,"  he  said  frankly,  at  last, 
"your  friends  bore  me,  Isabel.  I'm  older  than 
I  used  to  be,  and  I  prefer  my  own  sort  of  peo- 
ple. And  you  must  remember  that  I'm  working 
pretty  hard,  and  that  I'm  often  tired.  When  I'm 
tired  I  don't  want  to  talk  inanities." 

"  Inanities?  Do  you  call  Father  Damon's 
talk  inanity — or  Madame  Blaise's — or " 


210  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  No,  but  those  people  don't  come  to  dinner 
with  you.  I've  enjoyed  them,  of  course,  but  your 
crowd  on  Tuesday  was  quite  a  different  thing — 
wasn't  it  now?  You  only  wanted  me  to  fill  up  a 
gap,  to  amuse  one  of  the  young  women." 

"  I  always  want  you,"  said  Isabel.  "  But  you 
aren't  willing  to  come  just  to  please  me." 

"  I  can't  really  please  you  by  boring  myself. 
You  must  remember  that  the  time  I  can  spend 
with  you  is  limited.  Why  should  we  waste  it  in 
things  we  can't  really  enjoy,  or  in  discussions 
like  this?  If  you  could  be  content  to  let  me  come 
just  when  I'm  in  the  best  mood,  it  would  be  bet- 
ter for  both  of  us." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  should  see  you  very  little  then," 
said  Isabel,  with  subdued  bitterness. 

"  It  must  be  little,  comparatively,  in  any  case. 
But  there's  no  reason  why  that  little  shouldn't 
be  pleasant.  Keally  I  can  amuse  you  much  bet- 
ter if  you  let  me  choose  my  own  times  and  sea- 
sons." 

"  Amuse !    I  don't  want  to  be  amused !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,  Isabel,"  said  Basil,  laughing. 
"  That's  exactly  what  you  want." 

She  was  silent,  and  a  look  of  deep  melancholy 
shadowed  her  face.  Basil  saw  it  with  discom- 
fort, which  he  did  not  allow  to  appear.  He  be- 
gan to  talk  about  her  plans  for  the  winter,  about 
a  book  which  he  was  encouraging  her  to  write. 
She  had  in  mind  publishing  anonymously  a 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  211 

"  Journal  of  a  Woman  of  Thirty,"  and  had 
showed  him  some  loose  pages  of  it  which  had 
rather  surprised  him  by  a  certain  gift  of  hectic 
expression.  She  had  also  gone  seriously  into 
Icharity  work,  had  joined  several  societies,  had 
Set  aside  a  tenth  of  her  income  for  such  con- 
tributions, and  was  looking  about  for  some 
special  work  to  do  for  the  poor  children  of  the 
city. 

In  all  these  efforts  to  fill  the  essential  void  of 
her  life,  Basil  lent  what  aid  he  could.  Her  real 
suffering  touched  him,  though  her  passionate  ex- 
pression of  it  often  irritated  and  repelled  him. 
There  was  no  deep  sympathy  in  him  for  people, 
like  Isabel,  ill-adjusted  to  life,  with  inordinate 
claims,  with  demands  that  seemed  to  him  essen- 
tially unreasonable.  The  quality  in  himself 
which  had  attracted  Isabel,  his  ability  to  be  es- 
sentially content,  what  she  called  his  happiness, 
was  exactly  what  limited  his  sympathy,  and  his 
real  liking  for  her.  She  was  beginning  to  see 
that  limitation  in  him,  to  feel  that  there  was  no 
place  for  her  in  his  life.  Passionately,  all  of  a 
sudden,  breaking  in  upon  his  talk  about  her 
work,  she  accused  him  of  lack  of  spirituality,  of 
essential  materialism. 

"  You  aren't  interested  in  these  things,  in  try- 
ing to  make  the  world  a  little  more  tolerable ! " 
she  cried.  "  You  don't  believe  in  anything  I'm 
trying  to  do.  You  take  it  only  as  another  way 


212  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

of  amusing  me !  I  cannot  imagine,  Basil,  why  I 
ever  liked  you !  " 

"  Neither  can  I,"  he  said  readily.  "  Perhaps 
you  don't." 

"  No,  I  don't,  I  don't  like  you !  It  is  only  an- 
other instance  of  my  making  a  mess  of  every- 
thing. Everything  I  touch  turns  wrong.  There 
are  some  people  who  are  meant  to  be  unhappy  in 
the  world,  and  I  am  one  of  them.  I've  never 
seen  anything  clearly  in  my  life  except  that.  It 
is  not  meant  that  I  should  try  to  live  in  the 
world." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not,"  said  Basil  slowly. 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  full  of  a  mystic  question- 
ing. 

"  You  think  so,  too,  now,  don't  you,  Basil? 
You  know  you  have  always  argued  against  that 
feeling  of  mine,  and  it  was  for  that,  I  believe, 
that  I  loved  you.  I  was  seeking  for  something  to 
strengthen  me  against  that  feeling,  and  I  seemed 
to  find  it  in  you.  I  believe  that's  how  it  was. 
But  you  have  only  shown  me  how  wrong  I  was  in 
fighting  against  it.  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent,  and  Basil,  too.  This  was  the 
first  definite  reappearance  of  her  old  mood  for 
some  months,  and  Basil  felt  no  energy  within 
himself  to  combat  it.  His  interest  in  Isabel  had 
at  all  times  been  only  a  pale  reflection  of  her 
feeling  for  him,  apart  from  the  impersonal  in- 
terest which  she  discouraged,  and  his  relation 


THE     BOND  213 

with  her  had  brought  him  more  discomfort  than 
anything  else. 

Basil  was  not  happy  during  that  winter.  lie 
regretted  the  emotional  complication  he  had 
been  drawn  into,  and  found  the  inevitable  process 
of  getting  out  of  it  difficult  and  unpleasant.  The 
only  cheerful  thing  about  the  situation  was  that 
Teresa  apparently  did  not  suspect  it.  And  even 
this  had  a  tinge  of  bitterness,  for  he  thought 
that  if  she  had  not  been  absorbed  herself,  she 
would  have  suspected. 

Teresa  was  absorbed — but  not  in  any  one  per- 
son— only  in  amusing  herself.  She  had  never  be- 
fore been  so  gay.  She  saw  many  people,  ami 
gaiety  made  her  more  popular ;  she  basked  in  the 
sense  of  being  liked.  She  perceived  that  Basil 
was  unusually  moody,  but  now  she  did  not  al- 
ways try  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  his  moods.  He 
said  that  work  and  money  were  bothering  him, 
and  was  no  less  affectionate  to  her,  but  rather 
more  so. 

Isabel  Perry's  demands  ended  by  wearying 
him  profoundly,  and  he  came  to  Teresa  for 
peace  and  comfort.  But  he  had  a  grievance 
against  Teresa,  too,  and  this  was  that  she  now 
made  so  few  demands  on  him.  By  way  of  at- 
taining peace  with  her,  he  accused  her  of  be- 
ing more  interested  in  someone  else.  The  jeal- 
ousy of  Fairfax,  which  he  had  resolutely  stifled 


214  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

all  winter  long,  appeared  clearly.  Teresa,  with 
a  shock,  realised  his  unhappiness,  and  not  know- 
ing all  the  reasons,  put  it  down  solely  to  her  own 
account.  The  complete  story  of  her  friendship 
with  Fairfax  made  it  clear  to  Basil  that  he  was 
only  an  element  in  Teresa's  enjoyment.  Teresa 
tenderly  admitted  that  her  winter  had  been  friv- 
olous, and  that  she  had  neglected  Basil;  Basil 
protested  that  she  had  been  quite  right  to  have 
as  good  a  time  as  she  could.  Then  came  peace 
between  them,  and  a  return  of  their  old  gaiety 
together.  Teresa  once  more  became  accustomed 
to  hearing  how  much  more  charming,  how  much 
more  beautiful  she  was  than  other  women.  She 
took  the  other  women  as  nameless  abstractions, 
and  smiled  at  the  praise. 

In  the  spring  she  knew  that  she  was  to  have 
another  child,  and  this  one  she  welcomed.  She 
wanted  a  companion  for  Ronald,  and  she  now 
loved  Ronald's  baby  graces  so  intimately  that 
all  possible  babies  appeared  beautiful  to  her. 
Once  more,  and  all  at  once,  the  world  of  frivolity 
fell  away  from  her.  For  the  time  it  absolutely 
ceased  to  interest  her.  Once  more  the  special 
atmosphere,  cloistral  quiet  of  spirit,  seriousness, 
and  peace  of  mind,  closed  round  her.  She 
showed  a  quiet,  dreamy  happiness,  for  which 
Basil  adored  her. 

They  took  for  the  summer  a  cottage  in  a  quiet 
place  by  the  sea,  not  far  from  New  York,  for 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  215 

Basil  was  to  do  some  work  in  the  city.  He  was 
now  doing  real  pot-boilers — illustrations  for  two 
books,  and  some  magazine-stories.  Teresa  as- 
sured him  that  if  they  could  only  tide  over  thus 
the  baby's  birth — for  they  were  in  debt — next 
year  they  might  live  more  simply,  keep  within 
their  income,  and  then  he  needn't  do  that  sort  of 
work,  which  he  detested. 

They  began  the  summer  very  happily  together, 
Basil  going  up  to  town  two  or  three  days  a  week, 
for  his  drawings  had  to  be  realistic  pictures  of 
some  aspects  of  the  city.  They  thought  they 
might  keep  the  little  cottage  till  near  time  for 
the  baby's  arrival  in  December.  June  passed 
sweetly  and  calmly.  But  at  the  beginning  of 
July  Teresa  had  a  great  shock.  Gerald  Dallas 
shot  himself;  and  she  read  the  news,  a  brief, 
bald  report,  in  her  morning  paper. 

She  had  not  seen  him  for  months,  their  lives 
had  been  completely  separated ;  but  her  affection 
for  him  still  lived,  and  revived  suddenly  under 
the  sting  of  pity  and  self-reproach.  Basil  that 
morning  had  gone  to  town  very  early.  Trem- 
bling and  faint,  Teresa  dressed,  took  the  next 
train,  and  went  to  the  studio.  She  did  not 
find  Basil.  A  telegram  from  Isabel  that  morn- 
ing had  summoned  him  to  meet  her.  She  was 
in  town  for  the  day.  Accordingly  he  was  lunch- 
ing at  a  restaurant  with  her,  and  being  called 
to  account  for  his  various  deficiencies,  when 


216  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Teresa  came  to  the  studio.  She  hesitated  a  few 
moments,  then  scribbled  a  note  and  dropped  it 
through  the  letter-slit,  went  down  and  found  a 
cab,  and  gave  the  address  of  Gerald's  lodging, 
taken"  from  the  newspaper  account.  The  place 
was  a  cheap  boarding-house,  near  one  of  the 
small  squares  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city.  It 
was  a  broiling  day,  and  the  odours  of  poverty  as- 
sailed Teresa's  senses  as  she  got  out  at  the  door 
and  after  some  argument  was  admitted.  In  one 
of  Gerald's  two  rooms  she  found  a  chattering 
group  of  women.  One  of  them,  red  eyed  and 
flushed,  a  tall,  robust  girl,  who  had  answered 
her  knock,  seemed  to  be  the  mistress  of  the  place. 
To  her,  Teresa,  half  dazed,  said  she  was  Gerald's 
friend,  gave  her  name,  and  was  ushered  into  the 
room,  where  the  other  women,  silent  now,  stared 
at  her  curiously.  The  tall  girl  began  to  pour  out 
a  flood  of  self-pitying  explanations,  mixed  with 
tears. 

It  had  happened  the  day  before.  He  had  taken 
the  time  when  she,  Annette,  was  away  at  re- 
hearsal. He  had  written  her  a  letter,  which  the 
police  had  taken,  telling  her  what  he  meant  to 
do,  giving  directions  about  his  funeral,  and  say- 
ing that  she  was  to  take  whatever  possessions  he 
left.  The  letter  had  been  brought  to  her  by  a 
messenger,  and  she  had  come  back  and  found 
him  dead.  He  had  shot  himself  through  the 
heart,  lying  on  the  bed.  He  had  been  ill  for 


THE     BOND  217 

several  weeks,  and  she  had  had  a  terrible  time 
of  it. 

Teresa  went  into  the  other  room,  which  was 
darkened  and  hot.  Annette  opened  a  blind,  and 
drew  down  the  sheet  from  Gerald's  face.  Teresa 
felt  suddenly  calm  and  glad.  She  lingered  for 
some  moments,  feeling  tremulously  the  happi- 
ness of  his  peace,  his  escape  from  pain ;  then  she 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead  and  went  away,  say- 
ing to  Annette  that  she  would  come  next  day  to 
the  funeral. 

At  the  studio  this  time  she  found  Basil,  that 
moment  returned,  and  frantic  with  anxiety  be- 
cause of  her  note.  She  stammered  out  a  few 
words  in  his  arms,  and  fainted. 

The  summer  was  darkened  for  her  by  this 
event  and  by  the  physical  weakness  caused  by 
the  shock.  Basil's  devotion  to  her  was  complete, 
yet  her  prevailingly  sad  mood  came  to  irritate 
him,  since  he  felt  she  might  shake  it  off  by  a 
sufficient  effort.  His  remonstrances  had  no  ef- 
fect. Her  melancholy  and  ill-health  continued 
up  to  the  time  of  the  baby's  birth,  and  were  be- 
yond the  reach  of  her  will.  She  was  further 
depressed  by  fears  for  the  effect  of  her  state  on 
the  coming  child.  She  felt,  as  she  contemplated 
what  was  before  her,  that  her  strength  would 
not  carry  her  through,  and  she  thought  she  might 
die,  and  feared  it  on  Konald's  account.  She 


218  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

thought  much  about  Gerald.  She  was  sure  that 
if  he  had  known  her  condition  he  would  not  have 
dealt  her  this  blow.  But  he  must  have  known 
in  any  case  that  it  would  be  a  blow  to  her;  and 
all  life  took  a  darker  colour  because  of  his  in- 
ability to  bear  it. 

In  December  Teresa  was  very  ill.  She  went 
to  a  hospital,  and  there  the  baby  was  born,  and 
lived  but  two  days.  It  was  a  boy;  and  at  her 
first  sight  of  him  Teresa  thought  she  saw  an  epit- 
ome of  all  the  sorrows  of  man.  He  was  totally 
unlike  her  first  child.  His  tiny  face,  with  heavy, 
mournful  eyelids,  with  strange,  deep  lines  about 
the  mouth,  made  him  seem  a  creature  as  old  as 
the  world.  To  Teresa  all  the  sad  experience  of 
humanity  seemed  foreshadowed  or  summed  up 
in  him. 

He  died;  and  Teresa's  grief  was  passionate 
beyond  the  comprehension  perhaps  of  any  man. 
Basil,  though  sad  himself,  and  full  of  sympathy 
for  her  suffering,  could  not  understand  its  full 
extent.  To  him  the  child  had  never  really  lived ; 
it  was  hardly  more  than  an  abstract  expression 
of  the  terrible  will  to  live  of  the  unborn  universe ; 
an  atom  of  the  ever-pulsing  energy  which  forced 
its  way  into  the  world,  causing  suffering  and 
woe — all  for  a  life  of  two  days.  But  to  Teresa 
the  baby  was  a  complete  being,  and  she  sorrowed 
for  him  as  though  she  had  wronged  him  herself 

of  his  life.    And  she  sorrowed  for  herself,  for  the 

' 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  219 

joy,  comfort,  recompense,  she  had  lost.  She  pas- 
sionately wanted  the  physical  presence  of  the 
baby,  wanted  to  forget  everything  in  such  a 
half-animal,  half-spiritual  peace  as  its  small, 
clinging  life  would  have  brought  to  her.  She  re- 
volted against  the  uselessness  of  her  suffering. 
She  desired  to  die,  and  for  weeks  thought  she 
might. 

For  a  time  she  was  indifferent  to  Basil, 
and  even  to  Konald,  now  nearly  two  years 
old.  But  she  was  cared  for  in  spite  of  herself, 
strength  began  to  come  back  to  her,  and  soon 
she  could  go  to  the  apartment  they  had  taken  for 
the  rest  of  the  winter.  In  the  spring  they  meant 
to  go  abroad,  Teresa  and  the  baby  first,  Basil  fol- 
lowing as  soon  as  he  could  get  through  some 
necessary  work.  He  had  still  another  book  to 
illustrate — a  book  made  up  of  magazine  articles 
on  the  foreign  quarters  of  New  York.  Basil 
despised  the  sentimentality  of  the  letter-press, 
and  promised  himself  some  recompense  in  mak- 
ing his  drawings  as  biting  and  brutal  as  possible. 
Teresa's  illness  had  been  expensive,  and  Basil 
had  recently  had  to  pay  a  note  for  a  thousand 
dollars,  endorsed  by  Major  Ransome  for  a  friend. 
Need  of  money  drove  him  finally  to  agree  to  a 
demand  which  he  had  fought  off  for  some  time. 
Isabel  Perry  wanted  another  portrait  of  herself. 
She  wanted  it,  Basil  knew,  simply  in  order  to 
secure  his  presence  at  definite  times.  At  first  he 


220  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

had  refused  flatly,  and  kept  to  his  refusal  for 
several  months.  But  at  last,  in  a  moment  partly 
of  feeling  for  her,  and  partly  of  harassing  con- 
sciousness of  debt,  he  promised  to  do  it — and 
when  he  had  left  her  he  cordially  hated  their 
whole  embroglio. 


IX 

fTlHE  portrait  was  begun;  and  Isabel,  having 
A  carried  her  point,  became  for  a  time  ex- 
traordinarily sweet  and  docile.  Three  sittings  a 
week  having  been  conceded,  she  made  no  other 
demands  on  Basil's  time,  which  he  wished  to  de- 
vote, outside  of  work,  to  his  wife.  He  made 
great  efforts  to  divert  Teresa,  to  induce  her  to 
go  out,  to  make  her  take  care  of  her  health,  which 
was  re-established  very  slowly.  She  recognised 
his  care  of  her  gratefully,  though  almost  dumbly, 
and  tried  at  times  to  meet  his  wish,  but  an  over- 
whelming lassitude  of  mind  and  body  left  her 
no  energy  of  will.  She  wanted  nothing  except 
absolute  peace  and  quiet,  and  Basil's  keen  desire 
that  she  should  begin  to  live  again  interfered 
with  her  recovery.  She  began  to  feel  that  she 
should  not  get  strong  till  she  got  away  by  her- 
self, and  at  last  expressed  a  wish  to  go  at  once 
to  Europe.  This  was  in  March ;  but  the  dangers 
of  the  winter  crossing  for  herself  and  Eonald, 
and  her  own  physical  weakness  resulted  in  a 
joint  veto  of  Basil  and  the  doctor;  and  Teresa 
yielded  passively.  She  lived  on,  therefore,  in 
the  apartment,  seeing  as  few  people  as  she  could 
manage,  not  going  out  unless  she  was  forced; 

221 


222  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

disarming  Basil's  impatience  at  her  persistent 
negation  by  her  extreme  gentleness.  She  ceased 
to  talk  about  the  dead  baby  to  him,  because  she 
saw  he  thought  her  morbid.  Sometimes  she 
thought  that  Gerald  Dallas  would  have  under- 
stood her,  but  there  was  no  one  else.  Everyone 
else  tried  to  amuse  her.  Fairfax  came  a  few 
times  to  see  her,  but  the  great  change  in  her,  and 
her  evident  lack  of  interest  in  him,  discouraged 
his  visits.  There  was  only  Major  Kansome  whom 
she  was  really  willing  to  see.  The  Major's  whole- 
souled  acceptance  of  woman,  as  a  weak  creature 
who  must  be  coddled  and  indulged  in  her  unrea- 
sonableness— rather  amusing,  in  view  of  the  two 
strong-willed  women  who  had  married  him — 
somewhat  comforted  Teresa.  But  after  all  the 
Major  bored  her.  She  did  not  want  him  or  any- 
one else,  not  even  for  the  tiny  Ronald,  whose  ex- 
treme vitality  made  him  a  too  exact  copy  of 
Basil.  Basil  was  not  too  cheerful  at  this  time, 
but  he  tried  to  be.  His  intensely  positive  nature 
made  him  unwilling  to  accept  grief  as  Teresa 
did.  He  wanted  to  forget  their  misfortune,  to 
find  again  their  joy  in  life,  and  to  supply  it 
meantime  by  interests  which  seemed  to  Teresa 
factitious  and  feverish.  He  was  working  hard 
himself,  and  as  a  last  resort  he  tried  to  get 
Teresa  to  think  of  her  work  again.  But  her 
first  essay  with  the  clay  discouraged  him.  She 
modelled  in  secret,  only  showing  it  to  him  when 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  223 

it  was  done,  a  little  statuette  of  the  dead  baby, 
as  he  lived  in  her  thoughts:  a  tiny  naked  crea- 
ture lying  with  relaxed  limbs,  its  heavy-eyed, 
deep-lined  face  expressing  all  the  pathos  of 
life  manque.  At  Basil's  almost  weeping  protest 
Teresa  silently  put  away  the  little  image,  and 
did  not  touch  her  clay  again. 

•  *  •  •  • 

Isabel,  in  the  second  portrait,  instinctively 
wanted  to  have  expressed  her  charm  as  a  woman 
— the  thing  by  which  she  had  tried  to  attach 
Basil,  and,  as  she  knew,  failed.  She  had  chosen 
a  dress  of  black  velvet,  which  in  the  evening 
brought  out  wonderfully  the  intensity  of  her 
hair  and  eyes,  and  subdued  her  Spanish  skin  to 
ivory.  But  the  harsh  light  of  the  studio  denied 
her  all  charm  of  mystery  and  suggestion;  even 
as  the  keen  reality  of  Basil's  nature  had  stripped 
their  relation  of  the  romance,  the  sentimentality, 
which  she  had  striven  to  give  it,  and  brought 
out  its  essential  commonplace.  After  four  sit- 
tings under  the  painter's  cool  gaze,  it  became 
apparent  that  the  portrait  would  have  nothing 
of  what  she  wanted.  With  her  usual  impetu- 
osity Isabel  expressed  her  dissatisfaction. 

"  Basil,  you  are  making  me  out  an  old  hag!  I 
won't  be  painted  like  that,  I'm  not  like  that, 
I'm  not  ugly!  You  are  doing  it  on  pur- 
pose! .  .  ." 

Basil  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


224  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  I  don't  paint  pretty  pictures,"  he  said  in- 
differently. "  If  you  want  to  be  done  all  rose- 
colour  and  illusion,  you  ought  to  go  to  one  of 
the  lady-painters.  You  said  the  other  picture 
was  ugly,  too,  and  yet  you  liked  it — or  said  you 
did." 

"  It  was  different — it  was  not  brutal  like 
this!" 

"  Perhaps  you  can't  judge  it  very  well,  at  this 
stage." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  what  you  mean  to  make  it — 
something  that  I  would  never  in  the  world  ex- 
hibit, or  even  hang  up  anywhere.  Perhaps  it's 
because  it's  so  big  and — pretentious." 

"  I  thought  that  dress  demanded  a  big  canvas," 
said  Basil  ironically. 

He  laid  down  his  palette  and. brushes  care- 
fully, definitively,  and  said: 

"  We  won't  go  on  with  it." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Isabel  quickly. 

She  was  standing  near  him,  holding  up  the 
sweeping  velvet  train  with  both  hands,  on  which 
the  diamonds  glittered  coldly. 

"  No,  but  I  mean  it,"  said  Basil. 

She  looked  at  him,  dropped  her  train,  and 
moved  to  put  one  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Basil,  or  sulky.  I  daresay 
I'm  wrong,  and  it  will  come  out  all  right.  I 
know  I  oughtn't  to  criticise " 

"No,  it  won't  come  out  right.     I  was  a  fool 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  225 

to  undertake  it.  I  didn't  want  to  do  it.  I  can't 
do  a  pot-boiler  of  that  size !  " 

He  smiled,  took  out  his  cigarette-case — and 
her  hand  slipped  from  his  arm — and  began  to 
smoke  with  quick,  nervous  exhalations  of  relief. 

"  I'm  punished,"  he  said.  "  I  started  the  thing 
to  please  you,  Isabel,  and,  worse  still,  for  the 
money.  I  felt  like  a  slave.  I  don't  believe  I 
could  have  finished  it.  You're  perfectly  right 
to  dislike  it.  Good  Lord,  how  glad  I  am  you  dis- 
like it!  Now,  if  you'll  forgive  me  for  being  a 
bungler  and  wasting  your  time,  we  can  forget 
it.  Do  forgive  me,  will  you?  " 

"  I  really  don't  think  I  shall,"  said  Isabel 
slowly,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  nervous 
fingers.  "  I  don't  like  to  waste  my  time,  as  you 
say.  And  I  think  it's  childish  of  you  to  be  so 
piqued  by  a  hasty  word  of  mine " 

"  It  isn't  that,  dear  Isabel — it  really  isn't 
that,  but  something  deeper — my  conviction  that 
I  wasn't  making  a  good  thing  of  it,  and  couldn't. 
I  haven't  liked  it  from  the  start.  I  hadn't  the 
mood  for  it.  I  couldn't  see  it.  I  didn't  like  that 
dress,  for  one  thing " 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  say  so?  You  know  I 
would  have  taken  any  other " 

"  No,  it  was  your  choice,  and  I  was  trying  to 
do  this  simply  and  solely  for  you,  and  that's 
the  reason  Fye  failed.  I'm  enough  of  an  ar- 
tist anyhow  not  to  be  able  to  do  anything  good 


226  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

except  for  myself.  I  shall  know  that  another 
time." 

There  was  a  deep  suppressed  bitterness  in  his 
tone,  which  indicated  more  than  his  feeling 
about  the  picture.  Isabel  was  silent  for  some 
moments.  In  her  thoughts,  as  well  as  his,  per- 
haps, the  picture  symbolised  a  deeper  failure. 
She  moved  restlessly,  walked  away  from  the 
easel,  trailing  her  rich  dress  carelessly  over  a 
brush  that  had  fallen  on  the  floor;  she  flushed, 
bit  her  lips,  and  finally  said  sharply: 

"  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  like  to  admit  a  fail- 
ure like  this  without — without  really  trying  to 
do  as  well  as  you  can  by  it — and  by  me.  I  want 
you  to  go  on — perhaps  the  mood  will  come — if 
not,  I  shan't  reproach  you — and  I  shall  have  got 
something  out  of  it — some  satisfaction " 

"  I  can't,"  said  Basil  gently.  "  It's  useless, 
it's  only  wasting  your  time — and  my  own.  I 
couldn't  let  you  pay  me  for  a  picture  I  thought 
bad.  If  I'm  to  do  pot-boilers,  they  must  be  for 
people  who  honestly  want  bad  things.  For  that 
you're  too  intelligent.  Let's  say  no  more  about 
it,  please." 

"You  will  not,  then,  do  what  I  ask,  if  only 
to  please  me?  " 

« I  can't." 

"Then  you're  brutally  unkind  to  me." 

Basil's  face  flushed  darkly.  In  a  flash  of  his 
quick  temper  he  caught  up  a  brush  from  the 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  227 

table  and  splashed  two  blue  streaks  across  the 
face  and  neck  in  the  portrait, 

Isabel  burst  into  tears.  She  went  waveringly 
toward  the  divan,  sank  down  on  it,  and  wept 
hysterically  into  a  cushion.  Basil,  with  his  back 
to  her,  stood  silent,  passionately  resentful;  his 
fingers,  clenched  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  crushed 
a  handful  of  cigarettes  to  fragments.  When 
Isabel,  finding  that  she  wras  not  to  be  consoled, 
stopped  crying  and  summoned  the  remnants  of 
her  pride,  it  was  still  some  time  before  she  could 
speak.  Basil  was  still  immobile,  and  there  was 
no  sign  of  softening  in  his  attitude.  Isabel,  as 
quickly  as  possible,  took  the  course  which  her 
instinct  pointed  out  as  the  necessary  one.  The 
silence  had  become  terrible  to  her. 

"  I  was  wrong,"  she  said  dully.  "  I  have  been, 
I  am,  wrong.  I  cannot  get  what  I  have  wanted. 
And  it  is  not  your  fault.  I  was  wrong  when  I 
said  you  had  been  unkind  to  me.  Perhaps  you 
might  have  been  kinder — perhaps — but  I  think 
you  have  done  your  best.  You  aren't  exactly 
a  kind  person.  One  must — just  make  up  one's 
mind  to  the — bitterness  of  it.  One  must  see — 
one's  own  folly.  I  have  seen  it — oh,  I  have  so 
tried  not  to  see  it.  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  it. 
Now  I  shan't  try  any  more.  I  shall — accept  it." 

Her  head  sank.  She  smoothed  the  folds  of 
her  dress  over  her  knees  with  a  slow  motion. 
Basil  turned  toward  her  a  tired,  tormented  look. 


228  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Let  us  not  talk  any  more  to-day,"  he  begged. 
"On  my  word,  I'm  done — absolutely  done " 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  now.  .  .  .  And  I  shall 
go  away  at  once — south  somewhere,  Florida,  I 
think." 

"  You'll  let  me  come  and  see  you  before  you 
go." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  should  like  to  see  you  once  more. 
But  no  more  scenes,  Basil — I  promise.  Just  a 
quiet  talk — and  then  good-bye." 

Her  tone  was  dull  and  exhausted.  She  sat 
still,  looking  musingly  at  the  floor,  and  Basil  was 
about  to  go  toward  her  when  a  knock  sounded  at 
the  door.  Basil  opened.  It  was  Teresa. 

In  the  instant  of  greeting  her,  while  he  stood 
inwardly  hesitating  and  blocking  the  view  of 
the  studio,  Mrs.  Perry  rose  and  went  quickly 
into  the  dressing-room.  It  did  not  take  Basil 
more  than  five  seconds  to  decide  that  he  must  let 
Teresa  in,  and  he  did  so,  flattering  himself  that 
his  hesitation  had  not  been  noticed. 

"  You're  surprised  to  see  me,  aren't  you? " 
she  said,  smiling.  "  Are  you  busy?  I  thought, 
suddenly,  I'd  like  to  go  out  and  dine  to-night 
at  one  of  our  old  haunts.  Would  you  like  it?" 

"  I  would,  of  all  things,"  he  cried  fervently. 
"  Come  in,  Mrs.  Perry's  been  posing.  I'm  free 
now,  and  we'll  have  a  walk  first,  if  you  feel  up 
to  it.  Are  you  strong  enough?  How's  the 
weather?" 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  229 

"  Cold,  but  nice.  I'd  like  a  short  walk  anyway 
— I  feel  almost  energetic !  " 

She  came  into  the  room,  loosening  her  furs. 
She  was  dressed  in  black,  which  she  had  worn 
ever  since  the  baby's  death,  and  her  face  was 
rather  thinner  and  paler  than  before,  though 
the  frosty  air  had  given  her  an  unusual  tinge 
of  colour. 

In  passing  she  glanced  at  the  portrait  on  the 
easel  and  stopped  in  surprise. 

"Why,  what  have  you  done?"  she  cried. 

Basil  wished  he  could  have  got  the  picture  out 
of  sight,  but  said  cheerfully : 

"  Spoilt  it.    Too  bad,  isn't  it?  " 

Teresa  studied  the  canvas. 

"  A  fit  of  temper?  Of  course,  I  can't  tell  very 
well  now,  but  perhaps  you  were  too  quick.  Still, 
you  can  always  take  off  that  blue  paint,  can't 
you?" 

"  No.  I  was  working  on  the  face,  and  it's 
all  gone.  It  was  bad — the  whole  scheme  of  the 
thing.  I  felt  from  the  beginning  that  it  wouldn't 
do.  Of  course,  I'm  sorry  to  have  muffed  it.  But 
it's  a  relief  not  to  go  on  with  it,  when  I  see  it's 
a  failure." 

He  spoke  volubly,  moving  about  quickly,  put- 
ting away  his  brushes  and  palette;  and  finally 
he  took  down  the  canvas  and  set  it  with  its  face 
to  the  wall.  Teresa  sat  down  on  the  divan,  and 
they  talked  cursorily  for  some  ten  minutes.  Mrs. 


230  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Perry  found  some  difficulty  in  dressing  without 
a  maid,  and  also  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of  the 
marks  of  tears.  In  this  she  was  hardly  success- 
ful. Unfortunately  she  had  no  veil.  When  she 
came  out  finally,  Teresa's  first  glance  at  her 
face  resulted  in  a  second  quick  scrutiny.  The 
two  women  met  conventionally.  It  was  their 
first  meeting  for  nearly  a  year,  and  whatever 
feeling  of  intimacy  there  had  been  between  them 
had  long  since  disappeared. 

"  Would  you  mind  calling  a  cab  for  me? " 
Mrs.  Perry  said  to  Basil,  after  the  first  greeting 
to  Teresa. 

In  her  tone  was  a  certain  hint  of  imperious- 
ness.  Basil  went  out,  with  a  naive  sense  of 
escaping  from  an  uncomfortable  situation. 

"  Well,  the  picture  has  been  judged  a  failure, 
you  see,"  Mrs.  Perry  said  rapidly,  pulling  on 
her  gloves.  "  I'm  so  disappointed — I'd  really 
set  my  heart  on  it.  But  I  suppose  there's  no 
appeal.  Artists  have  their  ways  of  feeling  about 
their  work  that  ordinary  mortals  can't  be  ex- 
pected to  comprehend — isn't  that  true?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  Teresa  said  mechanically. 
"It's  a  pity.  Have  you  wasted  much  time  on 
it?" 

"  Four  sittings — a  good  deal  for  a  busy  person 
like  myself.  But — I  won't  grumble  any  more." 

"  Basil  will  be  sorrier  than  you,  I'm  sure.  He 
hates  to  make  failures." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  231 

"No — I  don't  believe  he's  very  sorry.  He 
wasn't  interested  in  it.  He'll  never  be  a  success 
as  a  portrait-painter,  will  he?" 

Teresa  smiled.  "  Not  a  worldly  success,  I 
fancy.  But  I  don't  believe  he  much  wants  to 
be." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  not.  Only  great  painters  were, 
weren't  they?  They  all  wanted  to  please  a  duke, 
or  a  king,  or  somebody.  Of  course,  when  a 
painter  gets  a  big  name,  like  Sargent  or  Whist- 
ler, he  can  have  as  many  moods  and  whims  as 
he  likes;  it  only  makes  people  run  after  him  the 
more.  I've  heard  so  many  stories  about  that 
Swedish  man  that  painted  everybody  last  year. 
He  did  about  two  portraits  a  week,  and  he  said 
when  he  got  back  to  Sweden  that  if  he  could  have 
painted  with  his  left  hand  he  might  have  done 
two  at  once.  He  started  pictures  of  all  the 
De  Morgan  girls,  and  made  love  to  one  of  them, 
and  Papa  de  Morgan  kicked  him  out  of  the 
house;  but  he  insisted  on  being  paid  for  all  the 
pictures  just  the  same,  under  threat  of  a  law- 
suit, and  got  the  money.  And  they  got  him  to 
paint  the  King  of  Sweden,  and  he  painted  him 
looking  half  asleep  and  quite  idiotic,  not  at  all 
regal.  Then  one  of  the  princesses  sat  to  him, 
and  he  came  quite  drunk  and  slapped  off  the 
portrait  in  no  time.  That's  what  it  is  to  be  the 
fashion ! " 

Mrs.  Perry  laughed  nervously.    Her  voice  had 


232  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

a  harshness  characteristic  of  her  in  emotion. 
Teresa  listened  gravely,  turning  her  muff  in  her 
hands.  Her  narrow  eyes  were  coolly  observant. 

Basil  came  back  and  announced  the  cab,  and 
Mrs.  Perry  nodded  and  said: 

"  Thank  you.  I'll  send  for  my  dress  to-day. 
Don't  bother  to  come  down." 

She  advanced  to  shake  hands  with  Teresa. 
"Good-bye — I  haven't  seen  you  for  so  long — 
I'm  sorry — you're  looking  a  little  ill,  aren't  you? 
I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  shall  be  leaving  directly 
for  Florida,  else  I  would  come  to  see  you.  Good- 
bye— I  hope  we  shall  meet  next  fall,  and  you'll 
get  strong  and  well  meantime " 

"  Thank  you — good-bye,"  Teresa  said  indif- 
ferently. She  had  risen — their  eyes  met  on  a 
level.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Perry  turned  quickly  and 
went  out. 


WHY  was  Mrs.  Perry  in  such  a  rage? " 
asked  Teresa  calmly,  as  they  walked  up 
toward  the  Park. 

She  walked  more  easily,  with  more  energy, 
than  she  had  done  for  many  months,  and  her  face 
above  the  grey  fur  looked  suddenly  animated, 
though  by  no  means  happy. 

"  In  a  rage,  was  she?  Why,  what  did  she  say? 
She  didn't  like  my  spoiling  the  picture,"  Basil 
answered  off-hand. 

"Was  that  what  she  was  crying  about?" 

"  She  wasn't  crying — Teresa !  " 

"  She  had  been,  about  five  minutes  before.  She 
was  in  a  thorough  hysterical  passion.  I'm  not 
exactly  blind,  Basil." 

"  You're  fanciful,  like  all  women,"  he  said  un- 
comfortably. "  Now,  don't — please,  dearest ! — 
don't  fancy  things.  You  don't  know  how  happy 
I  am  to  have  you  here  with  me,  looking  like  your 
dear  old  self  again — I'm  so  happy  that  you  felt 
like  coming  out.  We'll  dine  together  as  we  used 
to  do — oh,  how  I  have  missed  you,  these  last 
months ! " 

His  voice  shook,  and  he  took  her  hand  and 
put  it  through  his  arm.  It  was  dusk.  The 

233 


234  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

avenue  was  crowded  with  carriages,  though  the 
walk  was  comparatively  free.  In  the  clear 
frosty  air  the  lights  of  the  street  sparkled  and 
flashed  gaily. 

"  Were  you  really  glad  to  see  me?  "  said  Te- 
resa slowly. 

"Glad?    If  you  knew  how  glad " 

"  But  you'd  rather  I'd  have  come  a  little 
later — after  she'd  gone?  I'm  sure  she  would." 

Basil  sighed  impatiently. 

"  How  long  since  you  began  the  picture? " 
Teresa  asked  meditatively. 

"  Oh,  only  a  week  or  so.  I'd  only  worked  on 
it  four  times.  Thank  heaven,  I  haven't  got  to 
touch  it  again!  She's  going  away,  and  I  hope 
I  shall  never  see  her  again." 

His  involuntary  expression  was  too  unre- 
strained, too  savagely  convincing.  Teresa  was 
silent,  and  drew  her  hand  away.  He  began  to 
talk,  too  quickly,  about  other  things.  She  an- 
swered in  the  right  places,  and  he  began  to  think 
the  other  question  had  dropped;  but  she  came 
back  to  it  abruptly. 

"  I  see  now  what  you  meant  by  saying  you 
had  missed  me  these  months.  ...  I  might 
have  known  that  your  life  would  not  stop  just 
because  mine  did.  ...  I  have  been  half 
dead,  it's  true,  but  you — you  could  not  be.  But 
I  did  not  think  it  was  this.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  utterly  mistaken.     Whatever  inter- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  235 

est  I  had  in  her  stopped  long  before.  These  last 
months — for  a  long  time — it's  been  nothing 
but " 

He  stopped  suddenly.  He  had  meant  vaguely 
to  express  his  weariness  of  the  whole  affair,  but 
saw  too  late  how  it  was  committing  him.  He 
was  not  a  practiced  liar. 

"  Long  before,"  said  Teresa  slowly.  "  You 
mean — before  the  baby?  " 

"  Yes,  I  mean — oh,  I  mean  she  did  interest  me 
somewhat,  as  you  know,  at  one  time — some  time 
ago " 

"Ah,  it  was  then,"  said  Teresa  in  a  far-off 
tone. 

"  But  it's  nothing  you  need  care  about.  I  was 
never  emotionally  interested  in  her,  if  that's 
what  you're  driving  at.  I  don't  see  why  you 
question  me.  I  tell  you  I  don't  care  for  her,  and 
never  did,  except  as  a  friend,  a  person  that  it 
was  interesting  to  talk  to  occasionally.  She  is 
interesting,  objectively — so  much  temperament 
and  energy  somehow  gone  to  waste.  But  even 
in  that  way  I'm  not  interested  now." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"Oh,  because  nothing  interests  me  just  now, 
except  being  quiet  with  you.  I'm  infernally 
tired.  I'd  like  to  get  out  of  everything  and  go 
away  somewhere  and  have  nothing  to  think  of 
but  work — my  own  work,  that  I  haven't  been 
able  to  do  at  all  this  winter." 


236  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  I'm  so  sorry.  But  you're  sure  there  was 
nothing  else — nothing  but  friendship — nothing 
emotional  between  you?  " 

"Absolutely  sure.  Not  that  I  think  you've 
any  right  to  question  me  like  this,  but  I  answer 
this  once — there  was  nothing  of  what  you  seem 
to  suspect." 

"  Basil,  you  lie  badly,"  was  her  quiet  com- 
ment. 

"  How  dare  you  say  I  lie !  "  he  burst  out.  "  I 
won't  say  another  word  to  you  about  it!  First, 
you  cross-question  me  as  you've  no  right  to  do, 
and  then  you  say  I  lie !  I  won't  stand  it." 

Teresa  walked  on  a  few  steps  farther  to  a 
corner,  and  stopped. 

"Will  you  get  me  a  cab,  please?"  she  said 
gently.  "  I'll  go  home." 

"  No,  Teresa !  "  he  cried  wretchedly.  "  We 
can't  separate  like  this.  I  can't  quarrel  with 
you  now.  Let  us  go  and  have  our  dinner — don't, 
don't  quarrel  with  me,  for  heaven's  sake !  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  quarrel,"  she  said  in  the 
same  deadly  quiet  tone.  "Let  us  go  to  dinner, 
then.  But  I'd  like  the  cab— I'm  cold." 

In  the  carriage  he  felt  her  shivering  beside 
him.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  muff,  and  replied 
by  monosyllables  to  his  anxious  questions.  Basil 
had  given  the  address  of  a  down-town  restau- 
rant where  they  had  often  dined  together  gaily, 
and  they  had  rather  a  long  drive.  When  they 


T  H  E    B  O  N  D  237 

were  seated  at  the  table,  Basil,  worried  by  Te- 
resa's deadly  pallor,  made  her  drink  a  little 
brandy.  To  his  surmise  that  the  walk  was  too 
much  for  her,  she  assented  absently,  and  then 
said: 

"  But  it  is  time  I  made  some  effort.  I  see  that 
myself,  now.  Life  does  not  stop  for  one.  Life 
goes  on.  And  one  must  live,  too,  while  it 
lasts." 

She  spoke  without  emotion;  in  her  neutral 
eyes,  that  rested  everywhere  except  on  Basil's 
face,  there  was  a  look  of  suffering. 

"You  need  a  change.  I've  felt  it  for  some 
time,  only  you  didn't  seem  strong  enough " 

"  If  I  don't  get  away  now,  I  shall  die,"  she 
said,  in  the  same  quiet  way.  "  I  shall  start  next 
week.  I  want  to  be  away,  alone,  all  summer." 

"Alone?     But  you're  not  fit,  Teresa " 

"  Oh,  you  know  I'm  to  be  with  Nina  and  her 
family — that's  arranged.  We  shall  go  to  some 
quiet  place,  where  I  can  be  at  peace,  and  get 
strong." 

"  Alone,  then,  means  just  that  you  don't  want 
me." 

Her  assent  was  silence.  She  looked  away,  at 
the  faces  of  the  other  people  in  the  room,  and 
her  face  was  quiet  as  marble. 

Basil's -head  drooped.  Neither  of  them  had 
made  more  than  a  pretence  of  tasting  their  food. 
He  began  to  make  lines  on  the  tablecloth  with  a 


238  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

fork.  After  some  moments  she  looked  at  him. 
She  saw  that  his  face  was  haggard,  and  pale 
under  its  brown  tone.  She  recognised  in  its 
drawn  look  of  nervous  fatigue  the  accentuation 
of  a  change  that  had  been  coming  about  for  some 
time,  that  she  had  noticed  at  intervals  during 
the  winter.  At  last  he  glanced  up,  and  his  eyes, 
that  had  always  seemed  to  her  so  strangely 
young,  now  in  their  passionate  misery  sent  a 
pang  to  ,  her  heart. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  best  for  you,"  he  said  with 
some  difficulty,  looking  down  again.  "  Perhaps 
you  will  be  better  off,  away  from  me.  But  it 
isn't  best  for  me." 

"  For  both  of  us,  I  think,"  she  said  gently. 

"  Not  for  me !  I  want  you,  I  need  you,  and 
now  more  than  ever.  You  could  be  a  thousand 
times  more  to  me  now  even  than  you  have  been. 
For  this  last  year  you've  hardly  been  mine  at 
all — you've  been  away  in  spirit — you  haven't 
been  conscious  of  me  much  of  the  time " 

"  And,  therefore,  you  took  a  mistress." 

His  fork  dropped  with  a  clatter  on  his  plate. 

"I  did  no  such  thing!  But  if  I  had  tried 
to  have — not  a  mistress,  I  couldn't — but  some 
sort  of  active  interest  in  my  life,  most  people 
wouldn't  blame  me " 

"  It  was  because  I  was  so  unhappy,"  Teresa 
said  in  her  far-away  voice.  "  Life  seemed  to 
have  been  taken  out  of  me  for  the  time.  I  could 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  239 

not  be  anything  else,  do  anything  but  go  on  from 
day  to  day.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,  I'm  not  reproaching  you — and  you 
don't  understand  me,  either.  All  these  months 
you  only  have  been  in  my  thoughts — you  have 
been  my  only  real  interest,  though  I  tried  to  be 
interested  in  my  work.  I've  wanted  only  to  take 
care  of  you — if  you  remember,  you  know  that's 
true." 

"  Yes,  you  have  tried.  I  have  been  a  great 
burden." 

"  Never  to  me  have  you  been  anything  but  the 
dearest  part  of  myself,  the  dearest  thing  on 
earth.  Never  a  burden.  I've  often  been  sad 
because  of  you,  but  if  you  think  I've  loved  you 
less " 

He  could  not  go  on.  He  took  up  his  glass  with 
a  shaking  hand,  and  drank. 

"  I  can't  understand,"  said  Teresa,  and  her 
voice  was  a  low  cry  of  pain. 

"  I  wish  to  God  you  could  know  every  thought 
of  my  heart,  every  act  of  mine — then  perhaps 
you  would  understand.  You  would  know,  at 
least,  how  I  love  you." 

"  But  you  can't  tell  me,  can  you?  You  can't 
tell  me  the  truth  about — this." 

Basil  was  silent  now.  Uppermost  in  his  con- 
sciousness was  a  feeling  of  unbearable  fatigue, 
confusing  his  mind.  He  thought  vaguely  that 
if  he  had  not  been  so  tired  he  would  not  have  got 


240  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

into  this  intolerable  predicament.  How  to  get 
out  of  it  lie  could  not  see.  The  impulse  of  con- 
fession  was  so  strong  in  him  that  he  had  to  fight 
it  down  consciously.  He  desired  intensely  to 
tell  Teresa  everything,  to  make  her  feel  as  noth- 
ing else  now  could,  the  real  unimportance  of  his 
liaison,  to  himself  and  to  her.  But  a  feeling 
that  he  would  be  a  cur  if  he  told,  miserably 
held  him  back.  He  had  not  yet  admitted  any- 
thing to  her.  He  must  deny  it,  not  for  his  own 
sake,  but  for  that  of  the  other  woman.  Only  he 
could  not  deny  convincingly.  His  lies,  he  knew, 
must  be  half  hearted.  Each  one  put  another 
barrier  in  the  way  of  Teresa's  understanding  of 
him,  given  the  moral  certainty  of  the  truth 
which,  in  some  mysterious  way,  she  seemed  to 
to  have  acquired.  How  she  had  leaped  to  that 
certainty  he  could  not  see.  In  another  woman 
her  attitude  might  have  been  a  ruse,  but  Teresa 
was  not  artful.  She  believed  that  he  had  been 
deceiving  her,  and  was  still  trying  to  do  so; 
she  could  not  possibly  know  how  essentially 
truthful,  so  far  as  their  own  real  relation  went, 
he  had  always  been. 

"You  can't  tell  me — can  you?"  she  repeated 
softly. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  more  than  I  have  already 
said.  I've  not  been  unfaithful  to  you,  Teresa. 
This  suspicion  that  you've  got  in  your  head  is 
absolutely  wrong." 


THEBOND  241 

"  Will  you  swear  it?  "  she  asked  with  a  faint 
mocking  smile. 

"  Yes,  if  necessary.  But  you  might  be  willing 
to  take  my  word." 

"  No — don't  swear — don't  swear,"  she  said 
musingly.  Then  she  looked  straight  at  him. 
"  I'll  ask  you  no  more  questions.  It  is  finished. 
That  leaf  is  turned  down.  One  lives  and  learns 
— unfortunately.  .  .  .  Something  is  changed 
in  me,  Basil — this  day  has  made  a  difference  in 
our  lives.  I  don't  quite  know  what  it  is  yet — I 
haven't  got  adjusted  to  it.  It  came  on  me  so 
suddenly — like  a  physical  blow." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about," 
said  Basil  violently.  "  But  I  know  I've  had 
as  much  as  I  can  stand.  Life  hasn't  been  any 
too  pleasant  of  late,  and  this  caps  the  climax.  I 
think  it  is  better  you  should  go  away.  Then, 
perhaps,  I  can  feel  like  a  free  man  again,  and 
not  like  an  infernal  miserable  slave ! " 

"Yes — poor  Basil,"  said  Teresa  softly,  mock- 
ingly. 

"  Have  you  had  enough  to  eat?  "  he  demanded, 
a  flame  of  anger  in  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  plenty,  thanks.  Pay  the  bill  and  we'll 
go.  And  give  the  waiter  a  good  big  fee.  It's 
been  such  a  pleasant  dinner." 

Basil  did  not  look  at  her  again  till  just  as 
they  were  leaving  the  restaurant.  He  had  sent 
for  a  cab,  and  now  he  said : 


242  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"You  can  go  home  alone,  can't  you?" 

"  Perfectly."  Her  eyes  met  his — wrath  meet- 
ing wrath. 

She  drove  away  in  the  cab.  Basil  walked  up 
the  street,  with  wild  desires  to  smash  something 
seething  in  his  mind.  Brutal  dissipation  pre- 
sented itself  as  a  means  of  forgetting  for  a  time 
the  world  and  his  tormented  soul.  He  turned 
into  a  music-hall;  and  sat  alone  at  a  table,  and 
drank  three  strong  whiskies,  and  looked  at  the 
spectacle  about  him  with  haggard,  forbidding 
eyes.  In  half  an  hour  he  got  up  and  went  home. 

He  let  himself  in  quietly,  and  paused  at  Te- 
resa's closed  door.  He  heard  her  sobbing — deep, 
racking,  choking  sounds  of  pain.  He  turned 
the  handle  of  the  door,  called  her  name.  The 
sobs  were  stifled  then,  but  he  heard  them  still. 
He  called  her  again,  imploringly,  angrily,  plead- 
ingly, and  shook  the  door,  and  threatened  to 
break  it  down.  But  it  remained  locked. 


PART    III 


BEFORE  Leonardo's  picture  of  the  Virgin,  the 
Child,  and  St.  Anne,  in  the  Louvre,  Teresa 
had  lingered  for  some  time.  The  expression  of 
maternity  in  its  two  phases  fascinated  her;  the 
caressing,  youthful  attitude  of  the  Virgin  as  she 
leans  toward  the  child,  full  of  joy  in  its  grace; 
and  above  all  the  face  of  St.  Anne  smiling  on  the 
two,  with  a  whole  world  of  sad  and  deep  ex- 
perience behind  the  smile.  Teresa  stood  with 
her  two  gloved  hands  on  the  railing,  studying  the 
marvellous  sweetness  of  that  face.  Her  own 
was  grave  and  wistful.  She  was  pale  and  lan- 
guid in  the  heat  of  the  day ;  dressed  in  thin  trail- 
ing black,  except  for  the  white  gloves  wrinkling 
up  to  her  elbows,  and  she  was  alone. 

She  looked  with  sad  eyes  at  the  Virgin's  face. 
There  was  happy  maternity,  physical  and  spirit- 
ual joy.  Why  had  not  such  happiness  come  to 
her?  Was  it  her  fault  that  she  had  not  desired 
her  first  child?  Was  it  her  fault  that  she  had  lost 
the  second?  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

She  turned  away,  remembering  an  appoint- 
ment with  Nina,  and  came  face  to  face  with  a 
man  whom  she  had  noticed  vaguely  as  he  entered 
the  room,  soon  after  herself.  She  had  been  con- 

245 


216  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

scious  several  times  that  he  was  looking  at  her 
rather  than  at  the  pictures,  and  that  there  was 
something  distantly  familiar  to  her  about  him. 
She  stood  looking  at  him,  her  blue  eyes  still  misty 
with  tears,  her  face  perfectly  pale  under  the 
thick  bandeaux  of  her  hair.  He  seemed  slightly 
embarrassed,  but  there  was  such  distinct  recog- 
nition in  his  glance  that  she  bowed  to  him 
mechanically.  He  came  up  to  her  at  once,  ad- 
dressing her  by  her  name,  and  Teresa  gave  him 
her  hand. 

"  But  you  don't  remember  me,  I  see,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

He  was  of  medium  height,  with  a  wiry,  sol- 
dierly look.  His  thin  face  was  deeply  sunburnt ; 
with  its  grave,  intense  eyes  and  impassive  mouth 
that  the  slight  black  moustache  did  not  hide,  it 
was  a  sufficiently  uncommon  one;  but  Teresa 
could  not  place  it,  quite  evidently. 

"  My  name  is  Crayven — we  met  several  years 
ago  in  New  York,"  he  explained. 

"  Oh,  I  remember  perfectly — of  course !  " 
Teresa  cried.  "  First  at  my  house  and  then  at 
dinner  somewhere " 

"  And  then  I  went  to  see  you,  next  day,  and 
you  were  not  in.  You  had  told  me  I  might 
come." 

"  Had  I?  Why  wasn't  I  in,  then?  I  can't  re- 
member, 'it's  so  long  ago." 

"  More  than  three  years.    That  was  in  April, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  247 

and  this  is  June.  .  .  .  Arc  you  sttiying  in 
Paris?" 

"  Yes,  for  a  week  or  so  longer.  I'm  with  my 
sister,  Countess  di  Pepoli.  And  you?  " 

"  I'm  off  in  a  few  days  for  Switzerland,  for  a 
little  climbing." 

"  That's  odd,  we  are  going  there,  too,  but  only 
to  the  Val  d'lliez,  for  the  summer.  Your  route 
will  lie  quite  differently,  I  imagine.  I  remember 
you  were  bound  for  the  high  mountains  when  I 
saw  you  last," 

"  Yes,  but  I  shall  be  somewhere  near  you,  as 
it  happens.  I'm  going  to  Chamounix,  and  I 
have  to  meet  my  wife  in  Montreux  in  August. 
.  .  .  You — forgive  me,  you're  not  looking  as 
well  as  when  I  saw  you.  I  hope " 

He  stopped,  and  Teresa  realised  the  meaning 
of  his  glance  at  her  black  dress. 

"  I  have  been  rather  ill  this  last  winter — 
hence  Switzerland,"  she  said  quickly.  "My 
husband  joins  me  there  in  the  fall." 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad !  I  mean,"  he  said,  smiling, 
"  so  many  things  might  have  happened  in  three 
years!  I  didn't  know  if  you  were  in  mourning." 

"  Yes — so  many  things,"  murmured  Teresa, 
absently.  She  was  tired,  unnerved  by  the  heat; 
she  felt  the  tears  again  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
stammered : 

"  I — I  am  in  mourning.  Six  months  ago  I 
lost  my  baby." 


"  Oh,"  said  Crayven,  and  she  thought  he  looked 
at  her  strangely,  uncertainly.  She  dried  her  eyes 
and  added  quickly : 

"  My  other  boy  is  with  nie  here.  He  is  nearly 
two  and  a  half  now.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I  must 
go  on — Fve  an  appointment  for  tea  with  my 
sister." 

Crayven's  eyes  were  so  frankly  expressive  that 
she  added  at  once: 

"  Perhaps  you  would  come,  too,  and  meet 
her." 

"  I  will,  with  pleasure.  Thank  you,  very 
much." 

She  turned  for  a  final  glance  at  the  St.  Anne. 

"  I  can't  get  away  from  that  picture,"  she  said 
musingly.  "  Her  face  haunts  me.  She  has  lived 
through  all  that  young  joy  herself,  and  she  knows 
what  comes  after  it — all  the  bitterness,  all  the 
sorrow.  She  knows  what  is  to  come.  And  yet 
she  can  smile  on  youth,  too,  so  sweetly.  .  .  ." 

She  moved  abruptly  away,  and  said  to  Crayven 
as  they  went  out  together :  "  What  was  it  that 
you  came  in  to  see?  " 

"  Well — in  this  case,  you,"  he  answered  with 
the  faint  embarrassment  he  had  shown  before. 
"  I  saw  you  in  the  cab." 

"And  recognised  me,  after  all  this  time? 
Really?  How  amazing! " 

"  No— not  so  very.  You  see,  in  my  life  people 
count  for  more  than  in  most.  They  take  the 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  249 

place  of  books  and  most  other  occupations.  I 
never  forget  a  face." 

Teresa  glanced  at  him  with  some  surprise. 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  that  people 
counted  much  with  you.  I  mean — you  struck  me 
somehow  as  a  solitary  person,  one  living  apart 
from  people.  But  after  all,  what  do  first  impres- 
sions count?" 

"  They  count  much  with  me — for  I  have  to 
act  on  them,  generally,  pretty  promptly.  I  as- 
sure you,  my  life  out  there  is  anything  but  soli- 
tary. I  have  to  deal  with  people  every  day — not 
in  the  afternoon-tea  fashion,  you  know,  but  in 
matters  involving  life  and  death,  often  for  them 
— and  occasionally  for  myself." 

He  said  it  smiling,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  went  on,  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  the  same 
subject. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  impression  of 
you — or  rather  the  second,  at  Mrs.  Blackley's. 
There  was  a  radiance  about  you  that  night,  a 
look  of  happiness,  that  one  somehow  doesn't  often 
see." 

"  Yes.    I  was  happy.    .    .    ." 

She  said  no  more  till  Crayven  had  called  a  cab, 
and  they  were  driving  toward  the  tea-shop.  Then 
they  talked  a  little  about  Alice  Blackley.  Alice 
had  not  carried  out  her  plan  of  invading  the 
desert. 

"  I  hope  she  has  managed  to  amuse  herself 


250  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

elsewhere,"  Crayven  said  with  a  smile.  "  But  I 
don't  think  there  are  many  people  who  can  make 
a  successful  business  of  amusement.  There  are 
a  few — generally  men.  Women  are  too  much 
handicapped." 

"  I  know  one  who  does — one  man — my  brother- 
in-law.  You'll  see  him,  probably,  if  you  come  to 
Montreux,  for  he'll  spend  most  of  his  time  there. 
You  would  like  him,  I  think — at  least  people 
always  do.  He's  the  most  invariably  pleasant 
person  I've  ever  known." 

"  People  can  be  who  live  for  pleasure — not 
only  to  get  it,  but  to  give  it." 

"  Yes,  but  it  isn't  all  they  give,"  said  Teresa. 

In  Nina,  who  was  waiting  at  the  tea-place 
— for  Teresa  was  late  and  Nina  was  always 
prompt — Teresa  now  saw  always  the  wife  of  the 
man  who  amused  himself.  And  Nina  was  more 
a  mother  than  a  wife.  Her  blonde  beauty,  for 
she  had  been  really  beautiful,  was  now  somewhat 
worn  and  haggard.  She  looked  ten  years  older 
than  Teresa,  instead  of  the  actual  three.  She 
was  dressed — not  exactly  carelessly — but  with- 
out regard  to  her  best  points.  Her  figure,  badly 
corseted,  was  almost  middle-aged.  Beside  her 
Teresa  looked  like  a  young  girl.  When  the  other 
two  came  up  to  her  table,  Nina  was  scanning  a 
long  shopping-list  and  counting  the  money  in  her 
purse  with  a  worried  air;  and  responding 
brusquely  to  the  incessant  questions  of  her  eldest 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  251 

girl,  a  sallow,  deep-eyed  child  of  nine.  She  put 
by  her  business  when  Crayven  was  presented, 
and  made  an  effort  to  be  social ;  but  it  was  plainly 
an  effort,  Teresa  saw  that  she  was  tired,  and 
her  mind  preoccupied  by  the  flood  of  grievances 
about  the  shops,  and  the  behaviour  of  the 
French  governess,  and  the  fact  that  Ernesto 
would  not  come  to  Paris  but  had  written  from 
Monte  Carlo  for  more  money — which  she  had 
already  poured  out  at  luncheon.  Ernestine,  the 
little  girl,  sat  silent  while  the  tea  was  brought, 
devouring  cakes  and  studying  with  her  uncannily 
old  eyes  the  persons  of  Crayven  and  Teresa. 
She  was  given  a  large  cup  of  tea,  and  then  began 
to  ask  her  mother  something,  in  rapid  Italian. 

"  Speak  English,  child,  I've  told  you,"  said 
Nina  sharply. 

"  Oh,  I  thought,"  said  Ernestine,  slowly  and 
distinctly,  for  her  English  was  somewhat  diffi- 
cult, "  that  you  said  that  Aunt  Teresa  said  that 
she  had  no  friends  in  Paris." 

Teresa  laughed. 

"  One  finds  friends  unexpectedly  sometimes," 
she  said.  "  Everyone  comes  to  Paris,  you  know, 
Ernestine." 

"  Oh,"  said  Ernestine.  She  added,  before  her 
elders  could  fill  the  breach :  "  I  wonder  why  my 
father  doesn't  come?  He  never  will  come  when 
we're  here.  I  wish  he'd  come,  for  he  promised 
to  take " 


252  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Never  mind,  Ernestine,"  her  mother  inter- 
rupted, and  went  on  rapidly  to  say  that  Paris  in 
June  was  intolerable  and  that  the  weather  this 
year  was  worse  than  ever. 

Ernestine  looked  sulky  at  being  checked,  and 
sat  pulling  up  her  long  silk  mitts  with  an  of- 
fended air.  She  was  dressed  entirely  in  white, 
with  a  care  which  contrasted  strongly  with  her 
mother's  toilette.  When  she  had  finished  study- 
ing Crayven,  which  took  some  time,  she  trans- 
ferred her  attention  to  her  own  dress  and  her 
fluffy,  beplumed  hat,  reflected  in  a  mirror  oppo- 
site, and  a  ray  of  pleasure  appeared  in  her  small 
face. 

Teresa  watched  her  with  amusement,  shad- 
owed by  a  certain  commiseration  for  Nina.  The 
girl  was  so  absolutely  her  father's  daughter, 
except  for  her  sharpness,  which  was  Nina's  qual- 
ity somehow  translated  into  unpleasantness. 

Ernestine,  to  Teresa,  summed  up  all  the  diffi- 
culties of  Nina's  marriage.  She  was  frail  physi- 
cally, and  mentally  morbid.  There  was  almost  no 
relation  between  the  child  and  her  mother,  ex- 
cept one  of  conflict.  Whatever  affection  Ernes- 
tine had  was  given  to  her  father,  and  she  had  said 
once: 

"  When  I'm  grown  up,  I  shall  be  exactly  like 
Papa.  He  does  have  the  best  time.  Mamma  is 
always  working  and  worrying,  and  Papa  just 
enjoys  himself.  I  shall  be  good-looking,  too,  like 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  253 

him.  Mamma  looks  so  old  and  fat  and  never 
does  her  hair  nicely.  She  never  has  any  good 
clothes.  Papa's  boots  cost  eighty  lire  a  pair! 
/  shall  have  good  clothes.  Do  you  think  I'm 
pretty,  Aunt? " 

"  No,  not  exactly.  You  have  nice  eyes  and 
hair,"  Teresa  had  said  coolly. 

"  I  have  beautiful  eyes — you  know  it.  And 
that's  the  main  thing.  I  know  I  shall  be  pretty." 

"  Is  that  all  you  think  about,  Ernestine — 
clothes  and  looks? " 

"  Well,  no.  I  think  about  my  animals — I  have 
a  King  Charles  spaniel  and  four  cats.  And 
I  think  about  stories,  and  my  friends,  and 
about  people  a  lot — what  grown-up  people  do, 
and  what  /  shall  do  when  I'm  grown-up.  It 
isn't  very  amusing  being  a  little  girl — everybody 
thinks  you're  a  stupid  thing  and  always  in  the 
way.  Mamma  thinks  I'm  stupid  because  I  don't 
do  my  lessons  well,  or  learn  the  beastly  piano. 
But  you  don't  think  so,  do  you,  Aunt? " 

"  No,  I  think  you're  horridly  sharp,"  Teresa 
had  said. 

"  That's  what  Papa  says,"  was  Ernestine's 
satisfied  response. 

Teresa  had  perceived,  at  the  end  of  two  weeks' 
stay  in  Paris  with  Nina  and  her  two  elder  chil- 
dren, that  Ernestine  liked  her.  The  other  daugh- 
ter, Elaine,  was  a  shy  creature,  always  ailing, 
with  Nina's  blue  eyes.  The  three  boys,  whom 


254  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Teresa  had  never  seen,  were  already  in  Switzer- 
land, with  the  second  governess  and  the  Italian 
servants.  None  of  the  children  was  strong. 
Teresa  sincerely  pitied  Nina  under  the  weight  of 
this  establishment,  but  she  had  declined  staying 
at  the  Swiss  chalet  as  Nina's  guest.  The  hotel 
would  be  quite  near  enough.  She  wanted  to  be 
as  much  alone  as  possible,  or  with  the  small 
Konald.  She  was  longing  now,  in  the  midst  of 
sultry  Paris,  for  the  mountains,  the  pines,  the 
snow  and  rushing  streams,  and  for  quiet — above 
all,  quiet.  Nina  tired  her,  with  her  incessant  de- 
mand for  sympathy  or  at  least  for  a  listener; 
and  she  thought  she  would  be  better  able  to  re- 
spond to  this  demand  when  she  herself  was  a  lit- 
tle stronger. 

Crayven,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  restful  person ; 
he  gave  her  a  foretaste  of  that  natural  calm  and 
silence  she  desired.  She  asked  him  to  dinner,  at 
this  first  meeting,  and  then  he  took  Nina  and 
herself  out  to  dine  and,  at  Teresa's  request,  to  a 
popular  theatre,  which  reminded  her  of  her  slum- 
ming expeditions  in  New  York.  He  came 
twice  afterward  to  see  her,  during  the  week  they 
had  still  to  spend  in  Paris;  quietly  attentive  to 
her,  always  looking  cool  and  strong  in  the  midst 
of  the  wilting  heat;  self-contained,  not  amusing 
exactly,  but  attentive,  and  an  agreeable  person 
to  have  about.  When  they  said  good-bye  it  was 
with  distinct  pleasure  that  Teresa  found  he  had 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  255 

advanced  the  date  of  his  visit  to  her  neghbour- 
hood  from  August  to  early  in  July. 

"  But  your   mountains? "   she   said,   smiling. 

"Ah,  mountains — they  won't  run  away,  you 
know.  One  can  find  them  any  time,"  he  an- 
swered gravely. 


II 

THE  Val  d'Hiez  seemed  to  Teresa  a  cool 
heaven,  as  they  came  to  it  after  a  trying 
journey.  The  quiet  of  that  cleft  in  the  brilliantly 
green  hills,  all  one  flowery  meadow,  with  the 
misty  wastes  of  rock  and  snow  above,  promised 
her  at  last  the  chance  to  rest  and  find  herself. 
For  this  solitude  was  necessary.  She  could  not 
help  it  if  Nina  found  her  rather  unsocial,  after 
so  many  years  of  separation,  and  resented  her 
long  walks  alone. 

Many  hours  of  solitude  each  day  she  must 
have.  Besides,  Ronald  wanted  her.  He  was  a 
shy  child  and  did  not  make  friends  easily  with 
his  noisy  Italian  cousins.  He  was  generally  with 
her  when  she  worked — for  she  had  brought  some 
clay  with  her  and  had  begun  with  it  imme- 
diately on  her  arrival,  doing  some  little  groups 
from  drawings  she  had  made  long  ago,  and  often 
using  Ronald  as  a  model  for  the  child-figures  she 
liked.  Nina  was  busy  all  day  long,  organising 
her  household  and  wresting  supplies  from  the 
reluctant  Swiss  peasantry;  finding  out  just 
where  real  milk  and  cream  were  to  be  got;  tele- 
phoning for  chickens  to  come  by  post ;  stemming 
the  discontent  of  the  servants;  laying  out  a 

256 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  257 

regime  for  the  delicate  Elaine  and  the  refractory 
Ernestine.  But  she  wanted  Teresa  to  come  and 
be  talked  to,  in  the  intervals  of  these  occupations. 
It  was  Nina's  impulse  to  pour  out  all  her  troubles 
to  a  bosom  which  ought  from  ties  of  blood  to  be 
sympathetic ;  it  was  Teresa's  to  keep  hers  to  her- 
self. Nina  did  not  mind  this,  if  she  suspected  it ; 
but  the  deep  melancholy  which  Teresa  could  not 
help  showing,  and  which  inclined  her  at  present 
to  a  certain  fatalistic  view  of  all  troubles,  was 
not  pleasing  to  Nina.  Nina  was  an  active  per- 
son, who  believed  that  all  unsatisfactory  condi- 
tions could  be  remedied,  if  only  people  had  good 
will;  and  she  spent  her  life  in  a  constant  strug- 
gle against  the  natures  of  the  people  about  her. 
In  this  idealistic  warfare  she  reaped  the  usual 
reward  of  militant  virtue :  one  success  for  a  hun- 
dred failures,  and  the  consciousness  of  being  the 
apparent  cause  of  nearly  all  the  unpleasantness 
in  the  family  life. 

"  I  know  I  have  a  bad  temper,"  she  admitted 
to  Teresa,  "  but,  heavens,  what  I  have  to  try  it ! 
My  only  idea  is  to  bring  up  the  children  properly 
and  make  them  strong,  and  live  within  our  in- 
come, so  that  they  shan't  be  absolute  beggars. 
But  I  know  there  are  always  debts  that  I  know 
nothing  about — always  something  going  on  be- 
hind my  back,  or  under  my  very  nose,  that  I 
can't  make  out.  Of  course  that  makes  me  sus- 
picious and  irritable.  Ernesto  never  interferes 


258  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

with  my  management,  and  yet  he  does  work 
against  me.  The  children  see  him  always  pleas- 
ant, always  gay,  making  an  amusement  of  life, 
and  /  am  always  the  taskmaster.  It's  unfair — 
but  I  wouldn't  change  with  him.  I'm  the  im- 
portant person  in  the  house,  and  they  all  know 
it,  and  have  to  do  as  I  say.  And  I  do  enjoy 
the  children — only  Ernestine  is  trying.  She  is 
all  her  father,  but  the  others  are  more  like  me — 
except  they  are  not  strong.  They  are  beautiful 
children,  aren't  they?  If  I  can  only  see  them 
well  launched  in  the  world  I  shall  be  content." 

"  Content?  .  .  .  And  for  yourself,  Nina? 
You're  young — you  aren't  much  more  than 
thirty !  For  yourself — what  do  you  want?  " 

"  What  should  I  want?  I've  had  my  love- 
affair.  You  know  how  much  Ernesto  was  in  love 
with  me.  After  the  first  year,  when  the  children 
came,  of  course  it  had  to  be  different." 

"  You  mean  you  were  not  in  love  with  one 
another  any  longer? " 

"  In  love — no !  How  can  one  be  in  love  after 
the  first?  Life  is  too  prosaic — it  burns  out.  He's 
fond  of  me — that's  all." 

"  And  you're  resigned  to  being  prosaic  for  the 
rest  of  your  life?  " 

"My  dear  child,  what  is  marriage?  It's  an 
affair  of  family,  it  isn't  two  people  in  love  with 
one  another.  You  don't  see  it  when  you  go  into 
it,  but  later  you  have  to  see  it.  You  have  to 


T  H  E    B  O  N  D  259 

realise  that  your  life  is  the  family,  and  that  the 
man  has  his  life  away  from  you." 

"  I  think  you're  wrong !  "  said  Teresa  quickly. 
"You  gave  yourself  too  much  to  the  children. 
Sometimes  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  one 
hadn't  children." 

"  Teresa !  You  don't  think  so !  A  marriage 
without  children — you  might  as  well  be  simply 
a  man's  mistress.  .  .  .  It's  more  you  want, 
not  less.  It  was  a  great,  great  pity  about  the 
baby,  poor  darling.  You  wouldn't  give  up  Ron- 
ald, would  you?  " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Teresa,  "  if  a  man  one  loved 
couldn't  make  up  ?  " 

"  No !  They're  a  woman's  real  life,  children. 
Man's  only  an  accident  in  comparison." 

"  I  think  it's  the  other  way  round." 

"  Then  if  you  really  think  that,  Teresa,  you're 
more  of  a  mistress  than  a  wife.  But  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  do." 

Teresa  was  silent  again,  for  some  moments. 
Then  she  asked  reflectively : 

"  Could  you  have  ever  cared  for  anyone  else — 
since  you  were  married,  I  mean  ?  " 

Nina  flushed  deeply. 

"  That  would  be  committing  a  mortal  sin," 
she  said,  and  her  blue  eyes  shone  with  a  cold 
light.  Teresa  looked  at  her,  estimating  the  depth 
of  the  gulf  that  lay  between  them.  She  could 
conceive  a  mortal  sin,  but  it  was  not  love 


260  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Is  it  a  sin  for  a  man,  too,  if  lie  is  married?  " 
she  asked  curiously. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  sin.  But  it's  worse  for  a  woman. 
A  woman  must  be  faithful,  no  matter  what  the 
man  is.  She  must  hold  fast  to  her  duty — she 
must  not  even  think  a  sinful  thought — for  women 
are  terribly  weak,  Teresa." 

"  Not  so  weak  as  men." 

"  Oh,  much  weaker !  For  if  their  self-control 
goes,  even  once,  they  are  never  the  same  again. 
.  .  .  Listen,  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  about 
my  sister-in-law,  Edith,  Egisto's  English  wife, 
you  know.  I've  had  a  hysterical  letter  from  her 
this  morning,  and  she's  coming  up  here.  They've 
had  a  terrible  row,  and  Egisto  turned  her  out 
of  the  house.  Once  before  the  same  thing  hap- 
pened and  she  flew  to  me,  and  I  made  things  up — 
I  got  Egisto  to  take  her  back.  And  now  she's 
done  the  same  thing  again,  and  he  threatens  to 
get  a  separation — of  course  they  can't  be  divorced 
— and  as  nearly  all  her  money  is  settled  on  him 
it  will  leave  her  in  a  terrible  position.  That's 
what  women  come  to  who  don't  run  straight — 
even  from  a  worldly  point  of  view  it's  ruin  for 
them.  No  .  *1  .  it's  better  to  resign  one's 
self  to  being — dull,  I  suppose  you  call  it." 

"  I  do  call  it  dull,  to  have  nothing  but  your 
house  and  your  children !  " 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  You  can't 
have  affairs  with  men — you  can't  even  have  one 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  261 

man  to  yourself.  Your  husband  won't  be  faith- 
ful to  you." 

"I  could  never  live  as  you  do,"  said  Teresa. 
"  You've  given  up  too  much.  ...  I  must 
have  my  life — somehow " 

Nina  studied  her  sister's  brooding,  vivid  face. 

"  How  like  you  are  to  father !  You  have  much 
more  of  the  Southern  in  you  than  I.  You're  made 
to  be  happier  and  unhappier  than  I  am.  I'm  not 
unhappy." 

"  No — but  I  must  be,  if  I'm  not  happy,"  said 
Teresa  quickly.  "  What  is  life  worth,  if  it's  only 
to  be  got  through,  a  matter  of  routine  and  duty, 
and  always  sacrificing  yourself  for  other  people? 
They  don't  thank  you  for  it!  I  would  rather 
die  than  live  that  way!  I  will  be  happy,  some- 
how." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Nina  suddenly.  "  You're 
not  happy  now." 

"  No,  but  I  shall  be— I  shall  be!  " 

And  she  got  up  and  moved  away,  to  end  the 
conversation. 

She  disliked  having  expressed  even  so  much 
of  her  feeling.  She  disliked  seeming  unhappy. 
That  was  to  confess  failure,  and  she  was  by  no 
means  ready  to  confess  it.  She  had  a  passionate 
conviction  that  things  must  still  come  right  for 
her,  somehow,  and  the  impossibility  of  resigning 
herself,  ever,  to  a  grey  lot  like  Nina's,  was  ab- 
solutely clear  to  her.  She  walked  away  now 


262  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

down  the  path  leading  to  the  little  Vie'ze,  think- 
ing of  these  things. 

There  had  been  a  nominal,  a  partial  and  un- 
satisfactory reconciliation  with  Basil  in  the  week 
before  her  hurried  departure  from  New  York. 
His  evident  misery  had  broken  down  her  first 
stony  resistance.  She  could  not  resist  her  own 
tenderness  for  him;  all  they  had  been  to  one 
^another  spoke  too  strongly;  she  could  not  part 
from  him  in  unkindness.  But  the  passion  that 
flung  them  into  one  another's  arms  had  not 
healed  the  breach,  had  only  deepened  the  wound. 
Both  knew  it — both  were  unhappy.  Something 

as  changed,  was  gone — the  old  confidence,  the 
Id  assurance.  Joy  was  gone,  and  trust;  and 
ove,  that  remained,  was  bitter,  a  torment. 

Basil  had  begged  her  not  to  leave  him  just 
then,  to  put  off  her  sailing  for  a  month  at  least. 

"  It's  better  we  should  fight  it  out  together, 
now — and  I  need  you,  I  want  you  with  me,"  he 
had  said  again  and  again.  But  Teresa  had  only 
one  idea — to  get  away  somewhere,  alone — to  get 
away! 

"  I  must  go,  I'm  ill — I  can't  bear  it,"  she  had 
repeated.  "  I  must  get  back  my  strength,  then 
perhaps  it  will  come  right.  I  can't  see  anything 
clear  now,  I'm  just  one  mass  of  aching  nerves. 
Can't  you  see?  If  I  stay  here  I  shall  only  tor- 
ment you  and  myself.  ...  It  will  come 
right,  if  only  we  have  time." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  2G3 

And  she  consoled  him  with  vague  hopes  and 
hurried  promises,  with  only  one  desire  in  her 
heart — to  get  away  and  hide  herself  like  a 
wounded  animal.  It  was  a  physical  blow  that 
he  had  dealt  her,  something  that  left  no  place 
for  thought,  that  made  her  consciousness  all 
pain.  Talking  only  tortured  her,  she  could  not 
reason  about  it.  She  could  not  think,  she  could 
only  see  images  and  pictures  that  turned  her 
brain.  .  .  . 

Now,  in  the  solitude  she  had  craved,  she  was 
beginning  to  think.  What  had  happened,  then, 
after  all  ?  Had  he  not,  in  spite  of  his  passionate/ 
denials,  been  false  to  the  spirit  of  their  compact, 
to  their  egoistic,  purely  personal  relation?  Had 
he  not  shaken  the  foundations  of  that  relation, 
and  was  not  its  whole  structure  falling  in  ruins? 
If  so,  somehow  she  must  build  up  her  life  anew, 
without  love,  the  keystone.  Love^^as^  she  loved, 
him,  meant  complete  spiritual  possession,  com- 
plete confidence,  or  unhappiness.  She  would  not 
resign  herself  to  unhappiness,  to  taking  up  their 
life  on  a  lower  plane.  She  knew  what  would 
happen — she  foresaw  endless  suspicion,  sordid 
quarrels,  "  nagging."  No,  rather  than  that, 
rather  than  a  constant  demand  for  what  he  could 
not  freely  give,  she  would  live  somehow  without 
him.  But  as  yet  she  did  not  see  how  that  could 
be  done.  She  had  left  herself  no  substitutes. 
She  had  put  too  much  into  her  feeling  for  him. 


264  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

He  represented  to  her  all  the  charm  of  the  soul- 
less world,  of  godless  nature.  Basil  frankly 
recognised  no  law  outside  himself,  and  the  calm 
buoyancy  of  his  egotism  had  fascinated  her  more 
volatile,  more  impressionable  spirit.  His  tender- 
ness for  her  had  for  a  long  time  blinded  her  to 
the  harsh  side  of  that  egotism.  Now  it  had 
wounded  her,  so  deeply  that  she  could  not  yet 
see  how  she  was  to  get  over  it. 

She  had  had  a  number  of  long  letters  from  him, 
and  had  replied  briefly,  ignoring  his  protesta- 
tions. They  were  sincere,  but  she  would  not  give 
them  credit.  There  was  only  one  thing  that 
would  convince  her,  and  that  was  the  truth  about 
the  other  woman;  and  this  Basil  apparently 
would  not  tell.  And  it  seemed  to  Teresa  that  if 
he  would  not  tell,  it  must  be  because  he  had  too 
much  to  conceal,  even  that  spiritual  infidelity 
which  he  had  constantly  denied.  She  did  not 
believe  that  for  a  mere  scruple  of  conventional 
honour  he  would  imperil  their  relation,  if  he 
really  cared  about  it.  Her  eyes  narrowed  omin- 
ously as  in  her  heart  she  denied  to  Basil  any  lofty 
motive  in  his  silence.  Basil  was  not  lofty,  neither 
was  he  conventional.  It  was  absurd  that  he 
should  not  have  sacrificed  the  other  woman ;  and 
Teresa  recognised  in  herself  a  calm  determina- 
tion that  he  should  still  do  so. 

She  sat  on  a  rock  beside  the  rushing,  green, 
foamy  stream,  and  contemplated  herself  as  she 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  265 

really  was  in  spirit.  She  quite  admitted  that 
her  own  attitude  was  not  a  noble  one.  It  would 
have  been  much  finer  to  have  taken  Basil  at  his 
word,  to  have  risen  superior  to  this  whole 
episode;  it  would  also  have  been  more  sensible 
and  more  worldly — only  it  would  have  been  quite 
false!  Teresa  had  longings  to  be  sensible  and 
worldly,  and  longings  to  be  noble.  But  more 
deeply  than  anything  else,  instinctively,  she  de- 
sired to  be  perfectly  true  to  her  own  feeling;  or 
rather  she  could  not  help  being  so.  And  her 
feeling  was  that  Basil  had  carelessly  broken 
something  beautiful  and  beyond  all  price.  It 
might  not  be  beautiful  from  a  high  moral  point 
of  view;  but  it  had  been  aesthetically  beautiful. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  the  barque  of  their  happiness 
ought  to  have  been  capable  of  riding  out  such  a 
storm  calmly ;  perhaps  it  would  have  been  better 
to  have  embarked  in  a  craft  of  the  ordinary  pat- 
tern, with  a  thick,  solid,  institutional  bottom. 
Only  they  had  not  done  so.  Their  boat  had  been 
a  racer,  slender,  carrying  a  press  of  sail  free  to 
all  the  winds  of  fate;  and  now,  in  the  storm, 
one  could  not  know  how  much  damage  had  been 
done.  .  .  .  Teresa  had  a  momentary  vision 
of  a  derelict — mast  and  sails  all  gone  by  the 
board — rolling  helplessly  in  the  wash  of  the 
waves.  .  .  . 

She  watched  the  green  water  leaping  and  foam- 
ing over  the  rocks,  fresh  from  the  snows  above, 


266  T  H  E    B  O  N  D 

which  lay  shining,  new-fallen,  within  a  few  hun- 
dred feet  of  the  valley.  The  current  of  air  car- 
ried down  by  the  stream  was  inexpressibly  pure 
and  vital.  The  whole  scene — the  dark  fir-woods, 
the  bright  green  meadows,  the  great  desert  of  rock 
above — had  a  wildness,  a  formless  majesty,  a 
primitive  freshness,  that  soothed  and  quieted  her 
mood.  The  rush  of  the  water  half-hypnotised 
her.  Her  thoughts  became  blurred.  Her  face, 
coloured  by  the  keen  air,  was  dreamy,  and  once 
her  delicate  expressive  lips  parted  in  a  smile. 

She  was  conscious  that  she  smiled,  though  she 
hardly  knew  why.  It  was  perhaps  a  mere  sensa- 
tion of  physical  well-being,  for  long  strange  to 
her.  Already,  after  a  week  of  mountain  air,  the 
weight  of  her  winter's  illness  was  lifted.  She 
looked  even  vigorous,  and  there  was  still  about 
her  the  suggestion  of  softness  and  luxuriance  due 
to  her  recent  maternity,  unhappy  as  that  had 
been. 

She  sighed,  got  up,  looked  vaguely  about  her, 
and  walked,  on  along  the  water-side  to  find 
Konald.  A  shout  announced  that  he  had  seen 
her,  and  he  came  scrambling  up  from  a  cove — a 
small,  sturdy  figure,  straight  as  a  dart,  with  a 
mass  of  bronze-coloured  hair  and  vivid,  intelli- 
gent eyes.  He  was  a  beautiful  child,  and  Teresa's 
heart  swelled  with  pride  in  him.  She  sailed  his 
boat  for  him  till  lunch-time,  the  stolid  Swiss 
nurse  sitting  on  the  bank  like  a  meditative  cow. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  2G7 

Ronald  had  his  own  ideas  about  the  sailing  of 
the  boat,  as  about  most  other  things  in  his  life, 
and  he  infinitely  preferred  his  mother's  society 
to  any  other,  because  she  was  capable  of  grasping 
those  ideas.  He  was  not  a  clinging  baby,  but  an 
an  oddly  independent  one.  He  had  never  shown 
much  interest  in  other  children,  not  even  in  the 
smallest  Pepoli,  who  was  about  his  own  age. 
He  was  obviously  happier  alone,  when  he  was 
not  with  Teresa;  and  they  were  very  happy  to- 
gether. .  .  .  Ronald  at  the  worst  repre- 
sented a  certain  amount  of  salvage  from  the 
wreck. 

Yet  Teresa  had  often  thought  of  late  that  she 
and  Basil  might  have  been  happier  without  chil- 
dren. Their  troubles  had  begun  with  the  coming 
of  Ronald,  and  as  she  looked  back  to  the  first 
year  of  their  marriage,  it  seemed  to  her  to  have 
an  extraordinary  quality  of  freedom  and  joy.  It 
might  be  true  that  they  could  not  have  gone  on 
like  that,  that  life  would  have  taken  its  revenge 
on  them  somehow  for  shirking  the  ordinary  lot 
of  care  and  responsibility.  Possibly  that  sort  of 
happiness,  as  everyone  said,  was  not  meant  to 
last.  Perhaps  there  was  something  trivial  in  it, 
unless  one  took  it  simply  as  a  quality  of  youth, 
and  let  it  pass,  as  others  did,  taking  up  in  their 
turn  the  burdens  of  maturity.  There  was  some- 
thing in  Teresa  that  echoed  to  this  deeper  and 
more  serious  note ;  but  there  was  also  a  passion- 


268  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

ate  longing  after  that  vanishing  springtime,  the 
efflorescence  of  all  that  was  light  and  bright  and 
gay.  She  was  not  yet  ready  to  be  serious  like 
the  middle-aged  world,  grey  and  sober,  resigned 
to  its  losses.  Nor  did  the  alternative  of  frivolity 
attract  her.  She  was  not  frivolous ;  she  wanted 
what  was  real  to  her,  what  was  deeply  valuable, 
and  she  would  have  that  or  nothing.  Basil  had 
in  him  an  element  of  frivolity,  something  that 
tended  to  dissipate  what  she  regarded  as  her 
own  peculiar  possession.  And  she  recognised 
now  that  what  she  wanted  instinctively  was  to 
rule  him,  to  impose  her  own  more  passionate  will 
,  upon  him,  just  because  she  was  emotionally  at 
his  mercy.  ...  As  for  the  ideal  of  perfect 
freedom,  that  youthful  dream,  it  was  gone,  swept 
away  by  harsh  contact  with  the  facts  of  life. 
Neither  of  them  could  be  free.  She  was  bound 
in  spirit,  and  Basil  henceforth  should  be  bound 
by  her  will.  .  .  . 


Ill 

NINA  had  not  yet  got  her  establishment 
thoroughly  settled  when,  preceded  by  sev- 
eral telegrams,  Edith  di  Pepoli  arrived,  with  a 
mountain-wagon  full  of  luggage.  She  came  late 
at  night  and  went  straight  to  bed,  where  she 
stayed  till  four  the  next  afternoon. 

"  It  looks  as  though  she  meant  to  stop  with 
me  all  summer,"  said  Nina  in  the  morning.  "  She 
said  she  was  too  tired  to  talk  last  night,  but  I 
shall  have  it  all  to-day,  I  suppose.  Of  course  it's 
the  best  thing  she  can  do,  coming  to  stay  with 
us,  and  I  daresay  she  expects  me  to  make  it  up 
again  with  Egisto." 

"And  shall  you  try?"  asked  Teresa. 

"  I  don't  know.  One  hates  a  scandal  like  that 
in  the  family,  but  as  for  Edith — really  I  don't 
much  care  on  her  account.  She  promised  me 
solemnly,  she  swore  to  me,  last  time,  that  she'd 
behave  herself  properly  in  future — and  now  you 
see.  I've  no  patience  with  that  sort  of  person. 
A  woman  like  that  is  no  better  than — than  a 
creature  out  of  the  streets.  In  fact  she's  worse — 
for  she  has  her  position  and  her  family  to  think 
of.  No,  I  won't  have  her  in  my  house — I  won't 
have  her  here  with  my  children !  " 

Nina  flushed  suddenly  with  anger  and  she 

269 


270  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

looked  into  the  hall,  where  two  men  were  strug- 
gling to  get  up  the  narrow  stairs  one  of 
Edith's  huge  boxes.  In  this  mood  of  righteous 
indignation  Nina  looked  exactly  like  their 
mother,  Teresa  thought.  All  her  puritan  an- 
cestry spoke  in  the  cold  flame  of  her  blue  eyes 
and  the  hardness  of  her  mouth. 

"  Why  did  you  make  it  up  before? "  asked 
Teresa  in  a  low  voice.  The  walls  of  the  chalet 
were  so  thin,  and  noises  echoed  so  through  its 
low-ceilinged  rooms,  that  she  thought  the  visitor, 
in  the  room  above,  must  almost  have  heard 
Nina's  last  incisive  remark. 

"  Oh,  because — because  the  family  of  course 
didn't  want  a  scandal — and  then  Egisto  is  fond 
of  her,  in  spite  of  everything — and  she  came  and 
begged  and  pleaded — promised  anything,  if  only 
I'd  help  her.  But  now  I  shall  tell  her — I  really 
must  tell  her — that  I  can't  have  her  here." 

At  tea-time  that  day  Edith  came  down,  and 
Teresa  saw  a  tall,  fair  woman,  very  English  in 
type,  with  a  tea-rose  complexion,  large  blue  eyes, 
and  light-brown  hair  curled  elaborately  over  her 
forehead.  She  wore  a  loose,  clinging  dress  of 
pale  mauve  cr£pe,  she  was  rather  carelessly 
powdered,  and  her  eyelids  were  pink.  Her  hands 
trembled  nervously  as  she  took  her  tea-cup,  and 
she  drank  several  cups  of  almost  black  tea,  and 
then  began  to  smoke.  She  pleaded  fatigue  as  an 
excuse  for  not  talking — a  sleepless  night  in  the 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  271 

train,  and  last  night,  she  said,  she  had  not  slept 
at  all  well,  because  she  had  forgotten  her  sul- 
phonal.  Her  eyes  looked  pathetic,  and  if  she 
had  not  been  overperfumed  and  overdecorated 
with  bracelets  and  other  trinkets,  Teresa  would 
have  thought  her  rather  attractive.  Ernestine, 
who  sat  on  a  stool  by  her  aunt's  side,  was  evi- 
dently fascinated.  She  studied  every  detail  of 
the  mauve  dress  and  the  curling  hair  with  intent, 
yearning  eyes,  and  Edith's  tea-rose  skin  was  ex- 
actly what,  as  Ernestine  had  told  Teresa,  she 
had  often  prayed  to  have  herself. 

Teresa  felt  that  her  presence  embarrassed 
Edith,  who  had  evidently  counted  on  finding 
Nina  alone.  Nina  too  was  distrait  and  bothered, 
and  put  wrong  amounts  of  cream  and  sugar  into 
the  tea,  and  finally  poured  the  cream  into  the 
tea-pot,  by  mistake  for  hot  water.  They  all 
laughed  at  that,  but  rather  lamely,  for  the  sit- 
uation was  too  obvious.  Teresa  felt  a  sudden 
keen  sympathy  for  Nina,  as  she  looked  at  her 
worried  face,  and  a  resentment  against  the  blonde 
woman  whose  nervous  movements  made  a  con- 
stant little  noise  of  rustling  silk  and  tinkling 
ornaments.  Why  should  she  come  to  bother 
Nina,  who  assuredly  had  worries  enough  of  her 
own?  Would  Nina  be  able  to  tell  her  to  go? 
Could  one  turn  out  anything  as  helpless  as  that, 
with  its  sentimental  blue  eyes  and  tremulous 
mouth? 


272  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

The  two  sisters  dined  alone  that  night  at  the 
chalet,  as  usual.  Edith  had  gone  back  to  bed. 

"  I've  had  a  talk  with  her,"  sighed  Nina.  "  I've 
been  trying  to  persuade  her  that  she  ought  to 
go  to  her  relatives  in  England,  but  she  seems  to 
think  that  would  be  giving  up  any  hope  of  Egisto 
— and  the  children.  She  has  two,  you  know,  two 
little  girls,  and  Egisto  has  declared  she  shall 
never  see  them  again.  She's  been  crying — bawl- 
ing rather — for  an  hour.  She  swears  that  she's 
quite  innocent  this  time,  and  that  Egisto's  mor- 
bid jealousy  has  trumped  up  a  case  against 
her.  And  then  she  maundered  on  about  this 
man,  whoever  he  is,  some  Italian,  and  their  beau- 
tiful friendship,  which  people  would  misunder- 
stand, and  so  on.  Of  course,  if  she  tells  the 
truth,  it  is  pretty  hard  on  her.  But  then  she's 
been  such  an  idiot — worse  than  that,  criminal — 
and  even  if  she's  innocent  in  this  case,  she  de- 
serves it  all,  I  really  do  think.  I  was  wrong,  I 
believe,  to  meddle  with  her  affairs  at  all,  or 
try  to  help  her — and  yet  I  don't  know — what  can 
you  do  when  a  person  comes  and  goes  on  their 
knees  to  you " 

"  And  what  does  she  want  now  ?  "  asked  Teresa 
absently. 

"Why,  she  wants  to  get  back  what  she's  for- 
feited— her  children,  her  position  in  society. 
She  doesn't  care  anything  about  her  husband,  but 
of  course  she  can't  very  well  get  on  without  him. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  273 

She  went  on  to  me  about  his  brutality — and  it's 
true,  Egisto  is  rather  a  savage.  She's  afraid  of 
him,  too — jet  she  wants  him  to  take  her  back. 
I'm  sure  he  won't,  this  time,  however — so  there 
it  is." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Nina? " 

"  I  don't  knows  what  to  do,"  Nina  confessed, 
and  her  capable  face  was  dismally  bewildered. 
"  If  she  really  is  a  misunderstood  victim,  and  all 
that,  one  ought  to  help  her,  if  possible.  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  say  to  her  that  I  absolutely  won't 
do  anything.  But  the  awful  thing  is,  I'm  afraid 
she's  lying.  If  she  isn't,  it  shows  what  a  fear- 
ful mistake  she  made  in  the  first  place,  putting 
herself  at  Egisto's  mercy.  If  he  suspects  her 
wrongly  now,  it's  because  he  knows  about  the 
other  time.  Oh,  let's  talk  of  something  else — I've 
really  got  a  headache  from  it  all.  And  then  her 
crying,  and  that  perfume  she  wears !  If  you  could 
see  her  room !  Littered  from  top  to  bottom  with 
trunkfuls  of  stuff — corsets  on  the  table,  stock- 
ings on  the  bureau,  hats  on  the  floor,  cigarettes 
everywhere,  and  a  thousand  bottles  and  pill- 
boxes— heavens  knows  what  she  doesn't  take. 
Her  maid  can't  pick  up  things  as  fast  as  she 
drops  them." 

They  talked  of  other  things,  but  inevitably  the 
subject  of  Edith  came  up  again.  Nina  was  pre- 
occupied by  it,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  She's  very  pretty,"  said  Teresa. 


274  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Oh,  she  has  that  kind  of  attraction,"  Nina 
answered  disdainfully.  "  She's  always  sur- 
rounded by  men,  wherever  she  is.  Really  she 
cares  about  nothing  else.  And  she  sentimental- 
ises over  them  all — talks  about  their  souls  and 
the  higher  life  and  so  on,  when  really  all  that 
she  means  ...  I  know,  because  she  stayed 
with  us  one  summer,  and  the  other  affair  was  go- 
ing on  then.  I  saw  it,  but  I  couldn't  do  any- 
thing. I  talked  to  her,  though.  I  warned  her 
about  Egisto.  There's  a  bottom  of  savagery  in 
all  Italians,  and  it's  dangerous  to  touch  it.  But 
she  thought  she  could  always  manage  Egisto. 
And  she  always  had  some  fine  phrase  ready — she 
would  wrap  everything  up  in  cotton-wool  and 
make  it  look  pretty.  She  told  me  all  American 
women  were  as  cold  as  ice — no  temperament,  no 
feeling.  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  I'm  glad  I  haven't 
a  temperament.  I  can't  see  what  use  it  is  to 
women.  A  little  common  sense  goes  a  long  way 
further,  considering  what  we  have  to  do  in  the 
world.  I  shall  telegraph  to  Ernesto  to  come  at 
once.  He  really  must  come,  now  she's  here,  and 
take  part  of  the  responsibility." 

•  •  •  •  • 

A  week  later  Ernesto  appeared  upon  the  scene, 
accompanied  by  four  large  trunks,  his  valet,  and 
his  usual  air  of  bland  content  with  the  world, 
which  recent  heavy  losses  at  Monte  Carlo  and 
even  the  domestic  situation  had  not  diminished 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  275 

in  the  least.  Teresa  had  not  seen  him  for  five 
years,  and  she  found  him  absolutely  unchanged. 
His  slim  figure  was  as  graceful  as  ever,  his  hand- 
some face  unmarked  by  a  line  of  temper  or  dis- 
sipation or  thought.  He  was  as  careful  of  his 
looks  as  any  professional  beauty,  and  apart  from 
this  interest  and  the  problem  of  enjoying  him- 
self to  the  utmost,  Teresa  had  not  discovered 
that  he  had  an  idea  in  the  world.  His  coming 
filled  the  house  with  commotion. 

It  was  a  thoroughly  Italian  establishment — 
the  servants  informal,  loquacious,  and  always  in 
evidence;  the  children  generally  sharing  the 
hours,  food,  and  conversation  of  their  elders. 
Meals  were  long  and  elaborate,  and  all  the  house- 
hold business  was  conducted  with  what  appeared 
to  Teresa  an  incredible  amount  of  noise  and 
bustle.  Each  day  Nina  seemed  to  accomplish  the 
task  of  bringing  something  like  order  out  of  a 
chaos  of  rebellious  wills.  Meals  were  on  time, 
the  children  had  their  lessons,  their  piano-prac- 
tise was  regulated  so  as  not  to  disturb  Ernesto's 
morning  and  afternoon  siesta,  the  quarrels  of  the 
nurse  and  the  governess  were  settled  with  a  firm 
hand. 

But  the  question  of  Edith  had  first  to  be  dis- 
cussed, and  the  reluctant  Ernesto  was  called  into 
council  by  his  wife.  It  appeared  that  Egisto  had 
gone  off  to  Sicily  to  look  after  some  property 
there,  sending  his  children  to  the  care  of  the 


276  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

old  Countess  di  Pepoli  at  the  family  estate 
near  Bologna.  From  Sicily  he  had  written  to 
Ernesto  that  he  would  receive  no  more  letters 
from  his  wife,  had  requested  that  she  should  not 
be  allowed  to  stay  in  his  brother's  family,  and 
announced  that  on  his  return  to  Rome  he  should 
put  the  case  into  his  lawyer's  hands. 

In  the  week  that  had  elapsed  before  Ernesto's 
arrival,  Teresa  had  seen  that  Nina  was  being 
gradually  won  over  to  Edith's  side.  She  could 
not  resist  that  desperate  appeal;  and  the  affair 
was  something  to  manage,  and  Nina  had  stores 
of  unused  executive  ability.  Ernesto  was  non- 
committal, but  with  a  bias  in  favour  of  doing 
what  his  brother  wanted.  He  pronounced  finally 
that  Egisto,  although  a  younger  brother,  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  manage  his  own  domestic  af- 
fairs, and  that  he  did  not  think  they  should 
interfere.  The  affair  was  unpleasant,  and  Er- 
nesto hated  unpleasantness  and  bother.  Nina 
began  to  argue  strenuously  with  him,  and  sev- 
eral times  Teresa  was  drawn  into  the  debate. 

As  though  she  felt  that  her  fate  was  on  trial 
here,  Edith  levelled  her  batteries  at  Ernesto.  Up 
to  the  time  of  his  arrival,  both  she  and  Nina  had 
come  to  dinner  in  tea-gowns.  But  now  both 
dressed  every  night.  Nina  laced  in  her  middle- 
aged  waist  and  had  her  hair  built  up  into  an 
elaborate  coiffure.  And  Edith  appeared  each 
night  in  a  different  dress,  looking  fragile  and 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  277 

filmy  and  pathetic,  and  using  her  soft  blue  eyes 
most  patently.  Two  days  in  succession,  also, 
she  took  Ernesto  off  for  a  ramble  in  the  woods, 
prolonged  beyond  the  tea-hour.  And  this  pro- 
cedure came  near  to  undoing  her.  As  Ernesto 
warmed  toward  her,  Nina  cooled.  The  balance 
swung  the  other  way,  and  now  it  was  Nina  who 
declared  that  they  could  not  keep  Edith  on. 

Then  came  the  day  when  Nina  braced  herself 
to  the  ordeal  of  telling  Edith  that  she  must  go 
to  England.  The  unfortunate  result  was  a  fit  of 
hysterics  so  violent  that  the  French  doctor  had 
to  be  called  in;  and  he,  after  a  long  interview, 
pronounced  that  Madame  was  on  the  verge  of 
nervous  prostration  and  must  be  kept  perfectly 
quiet,  with,  above  all,  no  mental  disturbance.  In 
despair,  Nina  wrote  off  to  Egisto  the  state  of  the 
case  and  told  him  that  he  must  come  himself 
and  take  his  wife  away.  Then  there  was  a  period 
of  exhausted  quiet.  Edith,  having  gained  her 
point — to  stay  where  she  was  till  an  interview 
with  her  husband  could  be  brought  about — al- 
lowed her  nervous  crisis  to  be  calmed.  And 
Teresa,  to  whom  she  had  begun  to  talk  freely, 
good-naturedly  gave  her  a  hint  as  to  Ernesto. 

"  If  you  want  anything  from,  my  sister,  that 
isn't  the  way  to  get  it,"  she  explained.  "  It's 
Nina  who  decides  things  here,  and  to  have 
Ernesto  on  your  side  will  do  more  harm  than 
good  with  her." 


278  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Edith's  eyes  widened  slowly  and  she  nodded. 

"  I  see ;  jealous,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 
"  Oh,  what  a  frightful  passion  jealousy  is ! 
There's  something  so  sordid,  so  mean  about  it! 
But  I'll  be  careful — thank  you." 

And  she  was  careful.  She  by  no  means  gave 
up  her  intention  of  melting  Ernesto,  but  she  pro- 
ceeded with  a  cleverness  which  Teresa  saw  and 
loathed.  Ernesto  was  clever,  too,  after  his  initial 
mistake.  He  was  fond  of  caressing  his  wife  in 
public,  and  Nina  liked  this  small  change  of  af- 
fection. They  were  a  rather  oppressively  do- 
mestic couple,  on  the  surface.  In  Nina's  place, 
Teresa  reflected,  she  would  have  led  Ernesto 
a  life!  She  said  as  much  to  him  one  day  when 
they  strolled  up  into  the  woods  together. 

"  I  wish  you  had  had  the  chance,"  was  his 
prompt  retort.  "I  shouldn't  mind  any  sort  of 
a  life  with  you." 

"  Don't  waste  your  gallantry  on  me !  "  she  said, 
laughing.  "  Unless  of  course  it's  by  Way  of  keep- 
ing your  hand  in.  I  am  cross  with  you,  when  I 
see  what  a  slave  you  make  of  poor  Nina." 

"  I  make  a  slave  of  her !  Dearest  Teresa,  it's 
she  that  makes  the  slave  of  herself.  I've  always 
wanted  her  to  go  into  the  world,  to  enjoy  her- 
self, to  dress  herself,  to  go  about  with  me — but 
she  will  not." 

"  How  can  she,  when  you  spend  all  the 
money? " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  279 

"  But  that's  just  it.  If  she  spent  more,  I  would 
spend  less.  She  might  spend  at  least  half  of  it. 
If  she  were  with  me,  I  should  not  be  so  extrava- 
gant. But  she  always  says  she  has  no  clothes  to 
go  to  the  places  I  go.  Why  doesn't  she  get  the 
clothes?  You  see,  she  is  what  you  call  a  frump." 

"  You  horrid  man !  Why  don't  you  try  getting 
less  for  yourself  and  giving  her  the  extra 
money? " 

"  She  would  only  spend  it  on  the  house  or  the 
children.  Besides  it  is  not  all  a  question  of 
money.  Your  clothes — "  he  gave  a  critical  glance 
at  her  white  dress — "do  not  cost  so  very  much. 
Yet  you  are  always  perfectly  well  dressed. 
That's  what  I  mean  by  her  being  a  frump.  It's 
the  way  she  puts  on  her  clothes,  and  then  of 
course  she  would  not  take  care  to  keep  her  figure. 
It's  a  great  mistake  for  a  woman  to  lose  her 
beauty.  Nina  was  more  beautiful  than  you — 
and  now  you  are  far  more  beautiful.  You  have 
gained  greatly  from  your  marriage.  You  have 
not  made  a  slave  of  yourself,  eh?  " 

"  No.  But  then  I  have  not  five  children  and 
a  husband  like  you." 

"  Like  me?  Why  do  you  dislike  me  so  much? 
I  am  like  all  other  husbands,  only  better- 
tempered  and  handsomer." 

"  Conceited  creature !  What  good  does  it  do  a 
man  to  be  handsome  like  a  doll?  The  ugly  ones 
are  much  more  interesting." 


280  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  I  am  not  like  a  doll.  And  how  do  you  know 
whether  I'm  interesting  or  not.  You  look 
upon  me  only  as  the  bad  husband  of  the  good 
sister." 

He  cast  a  slightly  sulky  glance  upon  her  from 
his  dark  eyes — eyes  exactly  like  Ernestine's,  deep 
and  long-lashed.  No,  he  was  not  doll-like.  His 
forehead  was  broad  and  beautifully  modelled, 
his  nose  strongly  masculine;  a  short  pointed 
beard  and  moustache  hid  the  mouth  and  chin. 

"  No,  not  bad,"  she  smiled.  "  Not  serious 
enough  to  be  bad.  Only  frivolous." 

"  Well,  why  not  be  frivolous,  as  you  call  it, 
though  I  am  serious  enough  sometimes.  .  .  . 
I  suppose  you  mean  I  do  no  work,  but  what 
should  I  work  at,  and  why  work,  anyway?  What 
is  there  to  do?  II  ne  faut  pas  beaucoup  pour 
passer  la  vie." 

"Beaucoup?  Beaucoup  des  petites  choses — 
pour  vous  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  well,  what  is  the  difference,  after  all — 
big  things  and  little  things?  It  is  important  to 
pass  one's  life  as  agreeably  as  possible — voila 
tout." 

11  Even  at  the  expense  of  other  people." 

"  Somebody  must  pay  the  bills,"  said  Ernesto 
blandly.  "  But  after  all  one  sees  that  they  get 
something  for  their  money,  too.  My  pleasure  is 
to  give  pleasure  to  other  people.  It  is  not  my 
fault  if  the  capacity  for  pleasure  is  limited." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  281 

"  What  a  brute  you  sound  when  you  talk, 
Ernesto ! " 

"  No,  no,  it's  only  that  you  won't  understand 
me!  You  know  I  am  not  a  brute,  a  more  kind 
person  never  lived  than  I  am !  I  wish  everybody 
to  be  happy,  and  so  I  am  happy  myself.  What 
good  would  it  do  anybody  if  I  were  miserable? 
Why  are  you  not  happy,  Teresa?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling  faintly. 

"  It's  nothing  you  could  understand,  Ernesto," 
she  said  absently. 

No  man  could  understand — least  of  all  could 
a  Latin  understand ! 

"  I  understand  a  good  deal  about  men  and 
women,"  he  responded,  nodding  his  head  sagely. 
"  Much  more  than  you  think.  You  have  had  a 
love-quarrel,  and  you're " 

"I'm  what?"  said  Teresa,  half  offended. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me.  I  won't  say  it — I 
don't  know  you  well  enough  yet.  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  what  is  your  husband  like?" 

"  Oh,  like  all  husbands,  I  suppose — only  hand- 
somer," said  Teresa,  laughing. 

"  Does  he  bully  you?  " 

"  No — perhaps  I  bully  him." 

"  Ah,  yes,  you  are  a  typical  American !  Now 
there  is  Nina,  she  bullies  me  out  of  my  life.  The 
worst  of  that  is,  one  seeks  to  be  consoled  else- 
where. Eh?" 

He  cast  a  keen  glance  at  Teresa,  and  she  felt 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

the  colour  rising  to  her  cheeks.  She  shook  her 
head. 

"  Not  to  be  drawn  that  way,"  she  said.  "  Be- 
sides, I  don't  really  bully  him — I  nag  him." 

"And  what  is  the  difference,  please?  To  be 
nagged  is  to  be  bullied — it's  the  worst  kind  of 
torment.  No  man  can  resist  it — no  man!  He 
will  sell  his  soul  to  get  rid  of  the  sound  of  that 
voice,  forever  going  on,  forever " 

Ernesto  switched  off  the  tops  of  a  clump  of 
fern  with  his  stick. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  pretty  bad,"  said  Teresa 
meditatively.  "  But  I  daresay  you  get  out  of  a 
good  deal  of  it  by  deceit." 

"  Deceit?  But  one  must  deceive ! "  Can  one  tell 
the  truth  to  one's  wife?  Not  to  a  woman  like 
Nina,  at  any  rate — she  has  no  idea  of  the  world, 
and  she  is  religious.  And  remember  this — '  il 
faut  la  tromper,  parceque'lle  n'est  pas  de  celles 
qu'on  quitte." 

Again  the  keen  glance,  again  Teresa's  rising 
colour  answered.  He  had  a  diabolical  sharpness, 
this  simple  man!  And  the  phrase  had  struck 
her  deeply. 

"  I  am  not  of  that  sort,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Of  what  sort — the  sort  one  doesn't  leave? 
Oh,  but  you  are — absolutely.  And  therefore  '  il 
faut  vous  tromper.'" 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  283 

"  It's  the  one  thing  I  couldn't  forgive — deceit," 
said  Teresa,  looking  straight  ahead. 

"  But  why — when  it  is  really  a  compliment  to 
you?  .  .  .  For  a  man  to  tell  his  wife  certain 
things,  for  example,  he  must  be  entirely  indif- 
ferent to  her,  or  she  to  him.  Most  things  are  not 
to  be  told.  A  man  is  foolish,  he  gets  into  situa- 
tions where  he  can't  help  himself — or  he  gets 
fond  of  someone  else — well,  why  should  he  tell 
his  wife?  It  will  only  make  her  unhappy  and 
make  him  deucedly  uncomfortable.  It  can't  be 
done." 

"  I  said  you  couldn't  understand,"  said  Teresa. 

"  Oh,  well,  you  will  enlighten  me  sometime, 
won't  you  ? " 

"Never!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will — when  we  are  really 
friends." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  lightly. 

"  Charming  Teresa !  How  pretty  you  are  to- 
day! Don't  wear  black  any  more,  I  beg  you, 
except  in  the  evening.  I  love  you  in  white.  You 
look  more  alive  now  than  you  have  since  I  came." 

"  You  are  enlivening,  Ernesto — though  I  don't 
agree  writh  a  word  you  say." 
.   "  Oh — so  long  as  you  listen  it  is  enough ! " 


IV 

THE  next  day  Teresa  did  not  go  to  the  chalet, 
but  worked  hard  at  her  clay  modelling.  The 
desire  for  work  was  strong  in  her,  pleasure  in  it 
had  waked  again,  and  besides  she  had  a  keen 
desire  to  make  some  money,  to  relieve  Basil  at 
least  of  part  of  his  material  burden.  Her  things 
had  always  sold,  and  she  resolved  now  that  she 
would  if  possible  pay  her  own  expenses  and 
Eonald's.  She  blamed  herself  for  not  having 
done  more  the  past  two  years.  Her  own  small 
income  had  gone  largely  in  dress  for  herself  and 
the  child;  but  now,  with  a  little  help,  it  would 
pay  for  this  Swiss  summer.  Poor  Basil,  working 
in  the  heat  of  the  summer  city!  But  he  had 
many  friends — too  many  perhaps — who  would 
take  him  out  of  it.  Yet  she  knew  that  he  was 
never  as  comfortable  away  from  home.  She  had 
not  been  a  model  housewife,  but  Basil  had  liked 
his  home.  And  he  missed  Ronald.  His  letters 
were  full  of  inquiries  and  suggestions  about  the 
child — melancholy  letters,  sometimes  short  and 
brusque,  sometimes  long  and  argumentative. 
The  first  few  had  been  love-letters,  but  as  she 
did  not  respond  in  kind,  Basil  had  become  less 
expressive.  Twice  Teresa  had  written  warmly, 
begging  him  to  come  as  soon  as  possible — but  she 

284 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  285 

had  not  sent  the  letters.  The  face  of  Isabel  Perry 
had  risen  between  her  and  the  ardent  page,  and 
she  had  torn  to  scraps  all  she  had  written.  .  .  . 

In  the  afternoon  she  went  out  for  a  long 
walk  alone.  The  day  was  clouding  over. 
Mist  hid  the  mountain-crags  and  trailed  lower 
and  lower  into  the  valley.  She  walked  up 
into  the  sombre  pine-forest  to  a  cascade  that  came 
plunging  down  in  huge  leaps  from  an  invisible 
height.  Beside  the  basin  that  received  the  final 
dash  of  the  fall,  in  foam  and  roar,  she  sat  for 
some  time,  the  phrases  of  a  letter  to  Basil  shap- 
ing themselves  in  her  mind.  She  was  longing  for 
him ;  a  sudden  piercing  sense  of  loneliness  made 
her  weep.  What  did  it  matter  after  all  that  she 
wras  angry  with  him,  that  he  had  been  unkind? 
Nothing  mattered,  except  that  they  should  not 
waste  the  days  of  their  youth,  apart  from  one 
another.  It  was  far  better  to  be  together  and 
quarrel. 

Basil  had  been  right — she  should  not  have 
gone  away  from  him.  She  should  have  an- 
swered his  appeal.  She  had  been  wrong  toward 
him  in  many  ways.  She  had  never  of  her  own 
will  sacrificed  anything  to  their  love — had  given 
nothing  but  what  she  wanted  to  give.  She  had 
yielded  too  much  to  her  grief  that  last  year;  she 
had  not  thought  enough  of  Basil.  What  he  had 
done  was  only  what  all  men  did.  Men  were 
cursed  with  a  perpetual  need  of  action.  They 


286  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

CQuld  not  be  quiet  any  more  than  vigorous  chil- 
dren. The  thing  was  to  direct  their  insensate 
energising  into  the  least  harmful  channels.  She 
had  never  tried  very  much  to  direct  Basil.  She 
thought  of  him  now  as  a  small  boy  shut  up  in  the 
house  on  a  rainy  day,  and  told  to  make  no  noise. 
Yes,  that  had  been  her  attitude  toward  him  all 
that  last  winter — and  she  had  paid  for  it.  She 
had  given  the  other  woman  her  chance.  A  sud- 
den flood  of  rage  against  Isabel  welled  up  in  her 
and  dried  her  tears.  She  considered  ways  and 
means  of  being -revenged  upon  her.  The  blood 
beating  in  her  temples  told  her  how  it  was  pos- 
sible to  stab,  to  poison,  to  choke  a  rival.  Some- 
thing wild  rose  in  her,  as  a  thousand  times  be- 
fore, at  the  thought  of  their  caresses,  and  all  the 
softness  of  her  mood  was  gone.  The  tender  letter 
to  Basil,  like  so  many  others  she  had  imagined 
or  even  begun,  was  never  written. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Crayven  arrived  in  a  pouring  rain,  which  con- 
tinued for  a  week,  turning  the  one  street  of  the 
little  town  into  a  gutter  of  mud,  and  veiling  all 
its  surroundings.  Teresa  was  perfectly  aware 
that  he  came  to  see  her,  and  she  was  inwardly 
grateful  for  his  caprice.  It  was  difficult  for  her 
to  live  without  some  society,  and  that  of  Nina, 
Edith,  and  Ernesto  presented  too  many  compli- 
cations, while  the  few  acquaintances  that  she  had 
.made  through  them  did  not  interest  her.  Cray- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  287 

ven  did  interest  her,  largely  because  of  his  inter- 
est in  herself.  They  fell  at  once  into  easy  com- 
panionship, spending  all  the  afternoons  together, 
and  the  evenings  generally  at  Nina's  house,  where 
Crayven  made  the  fourth,  instead  of  Nina,  at 
bridge,  which  he  played  by  turns  very  well  and 
very  badly.  Ernesto,  though  greatly  bored  by 
the  bad  weather  and  the  place  in  general,  and 
threatening  each  day  to  depart,  stayed  on  for  a 
fortnight ;  by  the  end  of  which  time  the  skies  had 
cleared  into  delicious  warmth,  and  all  the 
charms  of  the  valley  were  in  full  display. 

Teresa's  mood  also  had  lightened  progressively. 
With  Ernesto  no  real  companionship  had  been 
possible ;  he  was  at  once  too  sentimental  and  too 
frivolous.  Crayven  was  neither.  Their  talk  was 
generally  grave,  but  it  stimulated  Teresa,  and 
she  talked  more  than  Crayven.  She  found  his 
point  of  view,  as  she  came  to  know  it  better, 
what  she  called  appallingly  middle-aged.  Cray- 
ven frankly  said  that  work  was  the  only  thing  in 
the  world  that  was  decently  worth  while,  and 
that  work  was  only  good  for  its  own  sake  and 
without  regard  to  results,  about  the  value  of 
which,  in  any  case,  he  showed  a  profound  scepti- 
cism. This  was  his  attitude  toward  his  own  oc- 
cupation, about  which,  however,  he  talked  with 
interest  to  Teresa.  He  described  to  her  in  detail 
the  place  which  had  been  for  years — for  at  least 
three-fourths  of  each  year — his  abode,  and  where 


288  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

he  seemed  perfectly  willing  to  spend  the  rest  of 
his  life:  the  primitive  old  fort,  buried  in  the 
desert,  three  days  by  camel  from  Suez.  He  told 
her  about  his  daily  work  there — generally  set- 
tling Arab  quarrels  about  camels,  with  an  oc- 
casional murderer  to  be  tried,  with  an  incessant 
effort  to  better  a  little  the  material  condition  of 
the  natives,  with  a  periodical  Turkish  invasion 
to  stir  things  up.  He  was  building  a  dam  now, 
he  said,  which  would  for  the  first  time  give  a 
decent  supply  of  water  to  the  settlement,  and  in 
which  he  was  much  more  interested  than  the 
natives  themselves.  He  had  some  fear  of  being 
transferred  to  another  post  of  more  technical 
importance,  in  which  case  the  work  that  he  had 
begun  would  go  for  nothing. 

"  The  shiftless  beggars  would  never  think  of 
going  on  with  it  for  themselves,"  he  said. 
"  They'd  let  it  go  to  ruin,  and  be  perfectly  con- 
tent with  the  discomforts  of  their  grandfathers." 

"  Then  why  trouble  yourself  to  give  them 
something  they  don't  really  want?"  asked 
Teresa. 

"Because  I'm  like  all  reformers,  cursed  with 
a  certain  amount  of  surplus  energy  which  I  don't 
know  how  to  direct  in  a  more  reasonable  way. 
It  would  be  better  to  spend  it  on  myself — except 
that  there's  nothing  I  want." 

"And  you're  content  to  live  out  there,  out  of 
the  world,  indefinitely? " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  289 

"  I  only  hope  they'll  leave  me  there  in  peace. 
It's  world  enough  for  me." 

"But  you  do  come.out  of  it  occasionally." 

"  Mainly  because  of  the  climate.  In  winter 
it's  delightful.  Then  there  are  people  one  likes 
to  look  up  now  and  then." 

Teresa  wondered  if  Crayven's  wife  was  in- 
cluded in  this  category.  He  never  spoke  of  her. 

"  It's  a  curious  life,"  she  said,  absently.  "  But 
it  seems  to  suit  you,  somehow.  I  knew  when  I 
first  saw  you  that  you  had  had  some  unusual  ex- 
perience." 

He  looked  up  at  her  steadily.  They  had 
walked  far  up  into  the  pine  forest,  and  were  sit- 
ting on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  Teresa  on  a  flat 
rock,  Crayven  a  little  way  below.  Teresa  met 
his  look,  with  a  feeling  of  strangeness  in  its 
meditative  intensity.  It  was  familiar  to  her  now, 
but  there  was  something  in  it  she  did  not  under- 
stand. She  had  seen  it  first  the  day  they  had  met 
in  the  Louvre,  and  then,  too,  had  first  noticed  in 
his  manner  toward  her  the  peculiar  interest,  the 
touch  of  emotion  which  had  nothing  of  gallantry 
about  it,  that  now  she  had  come  to  accept  as  a 
fact,  as  yet  unexplained.  Their  relation  had 
leaped  the  stage  of  acquaintanceship,  and  oddly 
taken  on  the  character  of  intimacy,  but  with- 
out confidences  on  either  side.  Crayven  had  told 
her  nothing  of  his  life,  beyond  the  active  phase 
of  his  work,  and  she  had  had  no  impulse  to  tell 


290  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

him  anything  that  counted  in  hers,  but  rather  the 
contrary.  He  had  tried  to  get  through  this  re- 
serve of  hers,  had  tried  to  make  her  talk  about 
herself,  with  an  interest  so  marked  that  it  de- 
feated its  own  end.  She  asked  herself  why  he 
should  be  so  much  interested,  why  he  should  have 
for  her  that  grave,  impersonal  tenderness,  unac- 
counted for  by  anything  that  she  knew.  It  made 
her  at  times  uncomfortable ;  yet  on  the  whole  she 
had  a  sense  of  freedom,  of  confidence,  with  him, 
that  made  his  companionship  a  deep  pleasure. 

"Unusual  experience?"  he  said  musingly, 
echoing  her  last  words.  "  No — not  that,  I  think. 
The  ordinary  experience — youth  and  its  dreams 
and  ambitions — and  middle-age  and  its  ac- 
quiescence." 

"  Middle-age !    You  are  young." 

"  I'm  thirty-six.  It  isn't  altogether  a  matter 
of  years." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"  It's  just  that — acquiescence.  Youth  is  the 
feeling  of  the  infinite  beyond  the  horizon — of  our 
own  infinite  possibilities — the  feeling  that  we 
may  do  anything,  get  anything  we  want.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  it  is  that.    But,  then?  "    . 

"  Then  we  explore  our  possibilities  and  find 
their  limits,  and  the  world  shrinks,  and  we  see 
the  stone  wall  instead  of  the  horizon.  And  we 
do  not  beat  our  brains  out  against  it.  We  ac- 
quiesce." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  201 

"And  you  think  it's  inevitable?  You  think  it 
must  always  be  that?  We  must  be  shut  in  by  the 
stone  wall?  I  would  never  submit  to  it — I  don't 
believe  in  it !  " 

"  Ah,  you  haven't  begun  to  be  middle-aged/' 
said  Crayven  quietly. 

"  Don't  talk  in  this  way !  Why  do  you  want  to 
take  all  the  freedom  and  joy  out  of  life?  You 
enjoy  your  life — why  do  you  deny  the  good  of  it? 
You're  ungrateful." 

"No — I'm  not  ungrateful.  I  take  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  day,  and  the  work  of  the  day,  for 
what  they  are — that's  all.  I  don't  ask  much  of 
life." 

"Why  not?  Why  don't  you?  Because  you 
haven't  imagination  enough — or  because  you 
asked  too  much — and  didn't  get  what  you 
wanted? " 

Teresa's  questions  were  impetuous,  almost 
angry.  They  had  never  before  been  so  personal 
in  their  talk,  but  often  Crayven's  attitude  had 
irritated  her  into  protest.  With  him  she  felt 
increasingly  a  passionate  desire  to  assert  the 
value,  the  joy,  of  life. 

He  reflected,  looking  up  at  her. 

"  I  suppose  I  have  not  much  imagination.  But 
it  is  true  that  I  did  not  get  what  I  wanted.  It's 
not  that  I  wanted  so  very  much — perhaps — from 
an  abstract  point  of  view.  But  I  wanted  what  I 
wanted  very  much.  .  .  .  And  to  be  beaten, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

you  know,  does  take  it  out  of  one.  There's 
nothing  left  but  a  kind  of  inept  cheerfulness,  a 
prosaic,  suburban  way  of  living.  You're  out  of 
it,  and  you  know  it." 

"  How  can  you  talk  like  that — admit  you're 
beaten !  I  wouldn't  do  it,  if  I  were  a  man.  How 
do  you  know  you  can't  get  what  you  want?  I 
daresay  you  didn't  half  try." 

"  Oh,  I  tried,"  he  said,  very  quietly. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  still  get  it." 

"  No,  I  can  never  get  it." 

"  Well — there  are  other  things  in  the  world, 
surely?  You " 

"  Yes,  but  there  isn't  much  that  I  happen  to 
want.  .  .  .  Just  now  I  want  nothing  except 
to  be  allowed  to  look  at  you." 

"And  why  look  at  me,  pray?"  said  Teresa 
coolly. 

"  Because — well,  because  you  are  beautiful." 

She  looked  away  gravely  into  the  depths  of  the 
forest.  She  did  not  like  his  last  words.  They 
showed  suddenly  a  lighter  attitude  toward  her 
than  before.  Her  talk  with  him  had  been  serious ; 
he  had  not  paid  her  compliments. 

There  was  a  change,  too,  in  his  manner,  a 
touch  of  excitement  about  it.  His  simple  friend- 
liness was  gone;  gone,  too,  his  quiet  matter-of- 
fact  English  aspect,  which  had  made  her  feel 
so  safe.  She  saw  suddenly  the  man  as  he  had 
first  impressed  her — the  stranger,  of  alien  blood, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  293 

the  unaccountable.  She  saw  the  desert  behind 
him,  a  world  of  different  laws  and  customs,  of 
different  feeling  .  .  .  and  a  strange  breath 
seemed  to  come  out  of  the  burning  sands.  There 
were  palm-trees,  cut  sharply  against  the  pale 
horizon.  There  was  a  line  of  laden  camels  plod- 
ding through  the  sand  .  .  .  and  then  it  was 
a  night-encampment,  the  black  tents  pitched  in 
the  glare  of  the  moonlight,  and  the  camels  snarl- 
ing as  they  lay  down  beyond  the  fires.  .  .  . 
Her  eyelids  drooped  with  a  bored  look,  and  she 
rose. 

"  It's  getting  late — I  want  to  see  Konald  before 
he  goes  to  bed,"  she  said  abruptly. 

Crayven  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"  Have  I — are  you — surely  you  don't  mind 
what  I  said,"  he  cried  quickly,  his  face  alive  and 
keen. 

"  Mind?    No,"  she  answered  coldly. 

"  But  you-  do !  Now  tell  me  why — you  mustn't 
be  offended  with  me,  I  can't  have  it." 

He  barred  the  path,  eager  and  determined. 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  let  us  get  on  home.  .  .  . 
,Well,  then,  if  you  must  have  what's  obvious  ex- 
plained, one  doesn't  like  to  be  turned  off  with  a 
banal  compliment  when  one  is  talking  seriously. 
I  know  you  don't  want  to  talk  to  me  about  your- 
self, but  there  are  other  ways  of  making  it  clear, 
aren't  there?  ...  I  shall  be  less  inquisitive 
in  future." 


294  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

She  walked  past  him,  and  heard  him  murmur 
to  himself,  "  Child !  "  The  word  by  no  means 
lessened  her  feeling.  Crayven  followed,  and  on 
the  walk  back  tried  earnestly  to  make  his  peace. 
But  it  was  long  since  Teresa  had  had  a  good  op- 
portunity of  being  unreasonable,  and  she  seized 
this  one  instinctively,  and  with  a  sense  of  relief. 
And — besides — it  was  only  on  the  surface  that 
she  was  unreasonable.  What  Crayven  had  said 
was  trifling  enough,  but  the  change  in  her  feel- 
ing was  not  trifling.  A  delicate  balance  had  been 
disturbed. 


y 

IT  was  after  all  an  artificial  balance,  she  per- 
ceived suddenly — the  whole  relation  had  been 
artificial.  For  three  weeks  now  she  had  seen 
Crayven  every  day — they  had  been  alone  together 
every  day  for  some  hours.  It  had  been  tacitly 
assumed  that  both  wanted  this  solitude  a  deux. 
It  had  been  recognised  that  Crayven  had  come 
and  was  staying  on  Teresa's  account,  and  she 
had  testified  with  the  greatest  frankness  that 
his  presence  gave  her  pleasure.  She  had  not 
asked  herself  exactly  what  sort  of  pleasure;  it 
had  seemed  simple  and  innocent  enough. 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  live  in  isolation. 
She  must  have  some  intimate  social  relation, 
something  that  carried  on  from  day  to  day,  with 
a  dramatic  interest,  with  an  element  of  excite- 
ment. Instinctively  she  desired  to  have  things 
happen ;  calm  was  not  natural  to  her  and  monot- 
ony irritated  her.  The  same  instinct  that  had 
'Jed  her  to  make  scenes  for  Basil  when  the  emo- 
tional tone  of  their  relation  showed  signs  of 
lowering  ever  so  slightly  toward  the  common- 
place, was  working  in  her  now.  And  coquetry 
was  working  in  her,  and  was  stirred  by  Crayven's 
change  of  tone.  Yet  she  was  in  a  way  angry  with 

395 


296  T  H  E    B  O  N  D 

him  for  the  change ;  it  was  a  shock,  it  revealed  to 
her  keen  perception  the  truth  that  they  had 
been  proceeding  on  a  falsely  romantic  basis. 
They  had  been  living  for  three  weeks  a  sort  of 
idyl — practically  alone  together,  strangers  to 
one  another,  wandering  in  the  midst  of  this  wild, 
fresh,  seductive  nature,  in  a  harmony  of  disagree- 
ment which  showed  the  strength  of  mutual  at- 
traction. Conventions  had  been  thrown  over- 
board ;  Teresa  had  ignored  the  surprise  and  mute 
protest  of  her  relatives.  Here  was  a  companion- 
ship which  soothed  and  amused  and  pleased  her, 
wrhich  satisfied  her  constant  need  of  attention  and 
interest,  and  in  her  present  mood  she  had  seized 
upon  it  as  a  necessity.  From  everything  else  in 
her  life,  at  present,  she  suffered,  in  one  way  or 
another;  she  was  bruised,  aching,  in  mind  and 
nerves.  She  consciously  lived,  really,  only  for 
her  moments  of  lyric  exaltation;  the  essence  of 
life,  all  that  wras  worth  living  for,  might  from 
her  actions  have  been  summed  up  in  those  mo- 
ments, when  a  passionate  fervour,  a  passionate 
delight  in  feeling,  in  the  grace,  beauty,  and  joy 
of  it,  swept  her  up,  rapt  her  away.  All  pleasure 
had  to  her  an  element  of  intoxication,  some  faint 
reflection  of  the  ecstasy  of  those  supreme  mo- 
ments. Crayven  had  been  a  pleasure  to  her, 
apparently  a  calm,  quiet,  prosaic  pleasure.  They 
had  played  at  being  old,  tried,  staid  friends.  His 
inexpressive  homage  had  warmed  her  in  her  mel- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  297 

ancholy;  the  wings  of  her  spirit  had  begun  to 
unfold  from  their  limpness  and  flutter  a  little. 

Now  she  saw  why  this  had  been.  They  could 
no  longer  play  at  being  old  friends.  Crayven 
had  abruptly  changed  the  key  of  the  tune;  and 
this  key  once  struck,  one  could  never  go  back  to 
the  other.  What  then?  .  .  .  The  first  effect 
of  all  this  was  a  feeling  of  loneliness,  of  intense, 
more  bitter  melancholy,  which  demanded  relief. 
She  recognised  that  she  was  deeply  restless,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  inclined  to  be  really 
reckless. 

Something  had  changed  in  her,  as  she  had 
said  to  Basil,  long  ago,  it  seemed.  Something 
was  changed  between  Basil  and  herself.  She  no 
longer  felt  that  they  belonged  absolutely  to  one 
another.  The  bond  that  was  too  strong  to  break, 
that  had  been  too  strait  to  bear,  was  in  some 
way  loosened.  She  no  longer  felt  accountable 
to  Basil  for  herself. 

She  played  bridge  that  night  as  usual — played 
absently  and  lost  steadily — and  when  Crayven, 
walking  with  her  to  the  hotel,  suggested  a  walk 
for  the  next  day,  she  said  she  had  some  work 
to  do.  He  said  calmly,  "  Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  and 
made  no  effort  to  persuade  her.  They  parted, 
coolly. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  went  off  for  a  moun- 
tain climb,  starting  with  two  other  men  in  his 
hotel.  They  refused  guides.  In  the  afternoon, 


298  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

when  Teresa  went  to  take  tea  with  Nina,  the  lit- 
tle town  was  buzzing  with  news  of  an  accident. 
It  was  late  at  night  before  the  facts  were  known. 
Meantime  Crayven  had  conie  back,  alone.  He 
had  separated  from  the  other  two,  who  had  in- 
sisted on  taking  a  short  cut  and  had  been  caught 
by  an  avalanche;  one  of  them  had  been  killed 
and  the  other  seriously  hurt. 

That  night  there  was  a  moon,  nearly  full, 
shining  down  from  a  cloudless  sky  on  the  jagged, 
snowy  crests  of  the  Dents  du  Midi,  and  touching 
the  mysterious  black  shadows  of  the  pine  forests. 
Teresa  sat  on  her  balcony,  watching,  troubled  in 
mind.  Crayven  had  come  to  see  her  for  a  mo- 
ment, having  heard  of  the  accident  on  his  return. 
He  had  been  grave  but  not  moved,  and  in  the 
shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  the  curt  way  in  which 
he  had  condemned  the  foolhardiness  of  his  com- 
panions she  had  read  his  indifference  to  one 
human  life,  as  such,  more  or  less.  There  had  been 
a  certain  physical  radiance  about  him  from  his 
long  day  above  there  on  the  rocks.  .  .  .  Teresa 
wondered  why  he  did  not  go  away,  for  the 
real  climbing  he  had  meant  to  do.  These  moun- 
tains after  all  were  child's  play  to  him,  and 
she  could  not  see  what  there  was  to  content  him 
in  the  quiet  life  of  the  valley.  In  a  month  or 
so  he  would  have  to  go  back  to  his  post.  Look- 
ing up  at  the  cold  mountain-peaks  she  pictured 
the  desert — the  rolling  hills  of  sand,  the  noise  of 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  299 

the  angry  camels,  the  long  march  made  on  the 
Arab  fare  of  dates  and  coarse  bread,  the  blazing 
sun — and  she  saw  herself  there  with  Crayven. 
It  was  an  image  so  clear,  so  vivid,  that  she  shut 
her  eyes  and  bowed  her  head  on  her  hands.  .  .  . 
She  thought  coolly,  as  she  went  in  to  bed,  that 
when  he  did  go,  as  he  must  soon,  she  would  miss 
him  enormously.  The  accident  of  the  day  had 
moved  her  to  a  keener  feeling  about  him.  If  the 
avalanche  had  caught  him  instead  of  the  two 
Frenchmen — no,  she  said  to  herself,  it  could  not 
have  made  any  great  difference  to  her.  All  the 
same,  she  was  glad  that  he  was  alive,  and  that 
she  was  to  see  him  the  next  day. 

•  »  •  •  • 

They  started  at  ten  in  the  morning  for  a  long 
walk,  meaning  to  lunch  at  a  chalet  up  in  the 
mountains.  The  day  was  glorious — clear,  warm, 
and  fresh.  Teresa,  in  her  short  white  dress,  with 
a  sweater  tied  round  her  waist — for  they  were 
going  up  into  the  snow — felt  once  more  young, 
vigorous,  and  gay.  She  sang  a  little  as  they 
walked  along  the  road  between  the  flowery 
meadows,  which  the  peasants  were  beginning 
now  to  mow — dull,  unpicturesque  figures,  like 
automatons  wound  up  to  a  slow,  steady  motion 
of  the  arm  and  the  scythe. 

"  They  are  exactly  like  their  cows,"  she  said 
lightly.  "  It's  strange  they  should  be  brutalised 
so  by  all  this  nature.  It  excites  me,  stimulates 


300  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

me — it's  so  wonderfully  fresh  and  full  of  life, 
this  air " 

"  Yes — but  living  in  it  forever,  year  after 
year — I  rather  think  there  wouldn't  be  anything 
left  of  one  except  the  brute,"  said  Crayven. 
"  One  could  forgive  the  Swiss  if  they  were  nice 
brutes,  like  the  cows.  But  how  they  drink !  " 

A  look  of  disgust  crossed  his  face. 

"You  hate  drinking,  don't  you?"  said  Teresa 
curiously.  "  Do  you  never,  yourself?  " 

"  Never  touch  it.  Why  should  I  ?  Beastly 
stuff." 

"  I've  noticed  that  you  never  take  any  wine  or 
anything.  Is  it  principle?  " 

"  No,  just  taste.  Don't  see  any  use  in  mud- 
dling one's  brain  further  than  nature  has  already 
done  it.  My  mother  died  of  it — drugs  and  things. 
Went  quite  off  her  head,  the  last  years  of  her 
life — lived  in  the  dark,  like  a  cat.  Not  pleasant." 

"  How  oddly  you  English  talk  about  your  rela- 
tives !  "  said  Teresa.  "  Now,  if  ice  have  a  person 
— not  quite  right — in  the  family,  we  try  to  keep 
it  dark." 

"Why?  It's  not  your  affair,  after  all,  what 
your  relatives  do.  Everybody's  got  some  queer 
person  or  other  about." 

"  You  see,  people  like  to  muddle  their  heads," 
reflected  Teresa.  "  Some  of  them  have  to  do  it 
— some  of  the  best.  A  man,  a  very  clever  one, 
once  said  to  me  that  some  sort  of  '  dope '  was 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  301 

absolutely  necessary,  when  one  had  once  got  one's 
eyes  open.  The  strongest  dope,  he  said,  was  re- 
ligion. The  others  were  love,  work,  and  whisky. 
His  was  whisky — he  said  it  was  the  most  reli- 
able. .  .  .  Yours,  I  suppose,  is  work." 

"Well,  it  isn't  religion,  love,  or  whisky,"  said 
Crayven  drily.  "  But — yes,  perhaps  my  work  is 
that,  to  a  certain  extent.  It  keeps  one  from 
thinking  too  much.  Out  there  in  the  desert  one 
would  get  a  bit  queer  sometimes,  I  fancy,  if  there 
weren't  a  perpetual  round  of  little  daily  affairs 
to  keep  one  going.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is 
a  dope.  And  yours — what  is  yours?  " 

"  Mine?  I'm  not  sure  that  I  have  one — yet. 
I  never  thought  I  needed  one " 

"  You  had  one,  when  I  saw  you  first.  It  was 
love." 

Teresa  flushed  hotly. 

"  It  is  not  a  '  dope  ' — it  is  the  only  real  thing 
in  the  wrorld,"  she  said  passionately. 

"Is  it?"  murmured  Crayven. 

"  It  is  the  only  thing  that  lifts  one  out  of  the 
ruck  of  the  world,  that  makes  one  feel  happy  and 
free  and  alive !  " 

"  No — whisky  '11  do  that,"  said  Crayven. 
"  It's  but  a  temporary  intoxication,  in  any  case." 

His  tone  was  subacid,  with  all  its  lightness. 
It  seemed  to  Teresa  that  he  delighted  in  making 
her  combative  on  this  subject.  He  always 
watched  her  face  when  she  asserted  her  belief  in 


302  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

joy,  in  happiness;  when  her  cheeks  flushed  and 
her  narrow  eyes  flamed. 

"  You  don't  believe  that,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  believe?  The 
grapes  are  sour — that's  what  it  amounts  to. .  I 
told  you  I  had  not  got  what  I  wanted." 

"Ah,  it  was  that,  then,"  she  murmured. 

They  were  silent.  The  wood  was  silent,  too, 
except  for  the  rush  of  the  stream,  up  the  bank  of 
which  the  road  mounted  steeply.  Crayven 
walked  with  long,  easy  strides,  and  Teresa  was 
always  conscious  that  he  was  subduing  his  pace 
to  hers.  Mentally,  too,  he  always  seemed  to  be 
taking  her  pace,  and  not  his  own  natural  gait. 
He  seemed  to  be  following  her,  waiting  on  her 
mood,  watching  her.  He  had  no  need,  ap- 
parently, of  expressing  himself — the  essentially 
masculine  need,  Teresa  had  always  considered 
it.  She  often  found  herself  wondering  what  he 
was  really  like — for  example,  what  woman 
counted  in  his  life.  It  was  not  his  wife,  she 
was  sure  of  that.  Was  it,  perhaps,  some  Eastern 
woman,  someone  behind  the  veil?  She  had  tried, 
but  Crayven  was  not  to  be  drawn  on  that  point. 
His  reserve  irritated  her,  especially  as  he  plainly 
wanted  to  find  out  all  he  could  about  herself. 
But  just  now  he  had  said  something  that  broke 
that  reserve.  She  took  it  seriously,  and  glanced 
even  timidly  at  his  face.  He  met  her  with  a  long, 
grave  look,  which  seemed  to  weigh  her  somehow. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  303 

"  If  I  tell  you  something,"  lie  said,  "  promise 
me  not  to  be  angry." 

"Angry?  Why — what  could  you  tell  me  that 
could  make  me  angry?  What  is  it?  " 

He  smiled.     "I  know  you  will  not  like  it." 

Her  eyes  questioned  him  eagerly,  but  half- 
offended  already. 

"  It's  this.  Ages  ago — ten  years  ago — I  was 
tremendously  in  love.  And  you  are  like  her. 
That's  it." 

"  Like  her?  How  am  I  like  her?  And  is  that 
what  you  meant  I  should  be  angry  at?  I  don't 
understand.  How  am  I  like  her? " 

"  You  look  like  her.  It's  the  same  type.  It's 
quite  extraordinary.  Though  she  was  blonde, 
rather — light-brown  hair.  But  there's  the  same 
modelling  of  the  face,  the  same  eyes.  ...  Is 
your  family,  by  any  chance,  English,  do  you 
know?  What  was  your  maiden  name?  " 

"  Grange.  My  father's  family  was  English. 
How  odd!" 

"  That  isn't  the  name — but  there  may  be  some 
connection  somewhere.  Her  name  was  Mow- 
bray." 

Teresa  shook  her  head.  "  I've  got  a  family 
tree  somewhere  or  other,  but  I  don't  remember 
all  the  names.  Perhaps  she's  a  far-away  cousin. 
But  it  must  be  your  fancy  that  I  look  like  her." 

"  It's  no  fancy.  I  was  struck  by  it  the  first 
time  I  saw  you — still  more  so  the  second  time, 


304  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

that  night  at  the  dinner.  You  even  wore  her 
colour — blue.  She  was  stronger,  more  robust 
physically  than  you,  but  you  have  the  same  look 
of  vitality,  of  life.  There's  so  much  vigour  in 
your  face — and  when  I  saw  you  in  Paris  you 
looked  as  she  did  when  I  saw  her  the  last  time. 
She  was  in  mourning  then,  and  sad — but  one  felt 
that  she  couldn't  be  sad  forever." 

He  spoke  quietly,  without  emotion,  and  seemed 
more  interested  in  Teresa  than  in  what  he  was 
telling  her. 

"  But  she— but  why " 

"  Why  was  it  no  good,  you  mean  ?  Oh,  it  was 
very  simple.  She  happened  not  to  like  me — pre- 
ferred somebody  else.  Absurd,  isn't  it?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  that !  She  must  have 
liked  you !  " 

"  You're  very  good.  Or  perhaps  you  believe 
that  love  wins  love.  It  generally  does.  But  in 
this  case,  you  see,  I  didn't  get  her.  ...  It 
was  rather  a  knock-down  blow.  A  man  ought 
to  succeed,  you  see,  in  that  adventure.  If  he 
doesn't,  he  never  feels  quite  sure  afterward  that 
he's  the  admirable  creature  he  ought  to  be. 
Something  has  beaten  him,  and  he  rather  expects 
to  be  beaten  again." 

"Again?    But  not  in  that  way " 

"Why  not?  Does  one  love  only  once  and  for- 
ever? .  .  .  That  may  be,  I  grant  you,  when 
from  being  in  love  you  come  really  to  love — when 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  305 

habit  and  experience  hold  you  to  it.  But  re- 
member, she  never  belonged  to  me.  She  was  only 
a  wonderful  possibility." 

They  were  in  the  depths  of  the  fir-wood  now, 
climbing  steeply.  Teresa  paused  for  breath,  and 
sat  down,  panting  a  little,  on  a  log  by  the  road- 
side. The  stream  hummed  far  below,  invisible. 
Crayven  lit  a  cigarette,  first  offering  Teresa  one, 
and  stood  leaning  against  a  tree  beside  her. 

"  You  were  twenty-six  then,"  she  said,  looking 
off  into  the  forest. 

"  Yes,  I  was  a  boy.  It  was  the  time  to  love — 
I  needed  it,  and " 

"  Have  you  a  picture  of  her? "  asked  Teresa, 
after  a  moment.  • 

"  Not  here.    I  don't  carry  it  next  my  heart." 

"  Was  she  unkind  to  you? " 

"  I  didn't  want  her  to  be  kind.    I  wanted  her." 

"  I  can't  understand  why  you  didn't  get  her. 
You  seem  to  me  the  sort " 

"  Women  didn't  like  me  then.  I  was  too  eager. 
I've  observed  that  they  like  me  better  now — be- 
cause I  don't  want  anything  much  of  them,  I 
suppose." 

"And  you  never  have — since?" 

He  was  silent,  till  she  looked  up  at  him  and 
met  his  eyes. 

"  Not  in  the  same  way,"  he  said.  He  moved 
abruptly,  and  sat  down  on  the  log  beside  her. 
"  Not  with  the  same  belief  and  hope.  That  was 


30G  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

youth.  .  .  .  You — I  meet  you  .  .  .  and  you 
happen  to  be  married,  you  see." 

"I?    .    .    .    Was  she  married,  then?  " 

"  No,  no,  she  wasn't,  then.    But  you  are." 

"  This  is  a  little  difficult.  You  are  married, 
too,  aren't  you?" 

"  Well,  I  am,  I  suppose." 

He  laughed  and  dropped  his  cigarette-end. 

"  But  there  are  degrees  in  being  married,"  he 
added.  "  I  am  married  in  the  least  degree  pos- 
sible." 

When  he  did  speak  he  was  frank  enough! 
Teresa  felt  he  was  moving  now  rather  too  rapidly. 

"  We  were  cousins,"  he  went  on  calmly.  "  It 
wa.s  a  family  arrangement,  I  am  sorry  we  have 
no  children.  It  has  been  rather  a  failure — except 
that  Adela  has  her  freedom  and  can  live  where 
she  likes.  She  hates  the  East,  and,  of  course,  it's 
no  place  out  there  for  a  woman — no  theatres, 
no  places  to  dine,  no  bridge — a  savage  place. 
Adela  uses  all  her  influence  to  get  me  into  a  bet- 
ter one,  and  I  use  mine  to  stay  where  I  am.  It's 
unfortunate  she  hasn't  a  husband  that  could  be 
pushed  on." 

After  a  silence  he  asked : 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about — dreaming 
about?  Your  eyes  are  full  of  dreams." 

"About  what  you've  told  me,"  she  answered 
with  a  certain  effort.  "  Come,  let's  walk  on." 

They  were  silent  till  they  had  passed  the  pine- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  307 

wood  and  come  out  into  the  Champs  de  Barmaz,  a 
field  shut  in  by  a  sheer  wall  of  rocks  on  one  side 
and  on  the  other  sloping  up  to  the  foot  of  the 
high  peaks. 

"  Sit  down  a  minute — you  look  pale  and  tired," 
said  Crayven,  gently.  "  I'll  bring  you  some 
gentians." 

He  went  off  to  a  great  patch  of  snow  lying 
at  the  edge  of  the  Champs,  and  Teresa  watched 
his  alert,  strong  figure  with  a  curious  feeling  of 
disenchantment.  So  this  was  the  reason  of  his 
interest  in  her — a  fancied  resemblance  to  a  boy- 
ish love!  He  had  said  she  would  not  like  it — 
and  she  did  not  like  it.  Her  vanity  was  hurt, 
and  she  felt  suddenly  remote  from  him,  bored, 
and  thought  of  Basil.  Why  had  she  buried  her- 
self here?  At  least  with  Basil  one  lived.  Her 
quarrel  with  him  appeared  absurd.  How  fool- 
ish, in  a  world  of  such  mischances  and  mal- 
adjustments, to  throw  away  a  day  of  happiness ! 
Who  knew  what  the  next  day  might  bring  forth  ? 
Who  knew  what  change  there  might  be  in  Basil, 
when  she  saw  him  again?  His  letters  indicated 
no  change,  but  what  were  letters  after  all?  They 
said  only  what  one  wanted  them  to  say.  She 
felt  a  sudden  hatred  of  the  casual,  the  mean- 
ingless, in  human  relations.  Why  waste  time 
on  people  who,  after  all,  counted  for  nothing? 
There  was  only  one  person  who  really  counted  to 
her,  Basil.  Why  not  allow,  once  for  all,  for  a 


308  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

certain  amount  of  the  casual  and  meaningless  in 
his  life — since  men  were  made  in  such  a  foolish 
fashion?  Why  not  forgive  him  his  folly,  as  she 
did  Ronald  when  he  frescoed  the  wall-paper  with 
ink,  in  pathetic  male  ignorance  what  else  to  do 
with  himself?  .  .  .  But  that  woman!  She 
could  forgive  Basil  easily  enough,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  insistent  figure  of  Isabel — her  eyes,  her 
mouth,  her  nervous,  seeking  hands,  her  perfumes. 
.  .  .  If  only  it  had  been  a  woman  she  did  not 
know !  She  turned  hot  and  cold  with  a  desire  to 
rend  Isabel  limb  from  limb,  to  crush  her.  She 
remembered  women  she  had  seen  fighting  in  the 
streets  in  London.  Happy  world,  where  people 
could  give  their  instincts  full  sway,  where  one 
could  tell  an  interloper  what  one  really  thought 
of  her!  She  remembered  the  last  scene  in  the 
studio — that  look  she  had  given  Isabel — with 
thirsty  satisfaction.  Isabel  knew  that  she  knew 
— that  was  something.  But  Basil  must  still  pay 
the  score  that  he  had  heaped  up  for  himself  by 
trying  to  stand  between  them — an  absurd  male 
buffer  between  two  frank  female  egotisms 
which  at  least  did  not  attempt  to  deny  the 
obvious.  .  .  . 

She  had  forgotten  Crayven,  and  she  started 
when  he  came  up  to  her,  his  hands  full  of  the 
vivid  indigo-blue  and  dark-purple  flowers  of  the 
snow.  But  she  smiled  at  him  warmly  and  took 
the  gentians  with  joy  in  their  wonderful  colour. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  309 

"  How  intense  everything  is  here  in  nature !  " 
she  said.  "  What  a  flame  in  that  blue !  And 
even  the  dandelions  are  orange  instead  of  yellow. 
And  the  green  of  the  meadows,  the  green  brook, 
the  black  shadow  of  the  pines,  and  then  that  sky 
— what  a  day !  "  She  sprang  up.  "  On,  on !  "  she 
cried.  "  I  wish  I  could  climb  up  there  on  those 
peaks,  up  into  the  clouds !  " 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  Barmaz  high  enough," 
said  Crayven.  "  It's  rather  a  pull,  this  last  bit. 
Sure  you're  not  too  tired?  " 

"  I'm  not  tired  at  all.  And  I  want  my  lunch. 
Do  I  look  tired?" 

She  did  not,  now.  Her  face  was  eager  and  full 
of  life.  They  walked  on  rapidly.  The  road  shot 
steeply  up,  then  doubled  and  redoubled  and 
doubled  again  on  itself  along  the  pine-clad  rock. 
They  met  a  dull-faced  peasant  coming  down, 
leading  a  huge  cow. 

"  Here,  as  Heine  said  of  Gottingen,  the  cows 
are  the  most  intelligent  part  of  the  population !  " 
Teresa  gasped,  as  they  stood  aside  to  let  the 
animals  pass.  Then,  getting  her  breath,  she  re- 
peated a  verse  that  always  sang  in  her  memory: 

f '  Mir  trdumte  einst  von  rvildern  Liebesgliihn 
Von  Tiubschen  Locken,  Myrten  und  Resede, 
Von  siissen  Lippen  und  von  bittrer  Rede, 
Von  diistrer  Lieder,  dilstern  Melodien  .    .    .' 

"  What   melody !     What  a   poet !     How,  he 


310  T  H  E    B  O  N  D 

handles  that  German  language  of  horses!  What 
a  singing  quality  in  that 

"  '  Myrten  und  Resede 
Von  stissen  Lippen  und  bittrer  Rede    .    .    .' 

He  knew  the  touch  of  sweet  lips  and  of  bitter 
herbs!  ...  I  feel  like  singing  myself." 

"  Do,"  said  Crayven  gravely. 

"  Not  going  up  a  hill  like  this !  Immer  zut 
immer  zu,  ohne  Rast  und  Ruh!" 

She  led  the  way,  breathless,  and  Crayven  fol- 
lowed, taking  one  long  step  to  her  two.  The 
sun  was  hot  on  the  face  of  the  rock,  but  when 
they  reached  the  top  and  Teresa  sank  down,  pant- 
ing and  smiling,  by  the  roadside,  a  cool  wind  met 
them,  a  rollicking  wind  fresh  from  the  snows. 
She  took  off  her  hat  and  lifted  her  face  to  drink 
it  in. 

"  Put  on  your  sweater,  or  you'll  take  cold," 
said  Crayven,  standing  before  her  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  looking  suddenly  stolid  and 
British. 

She  laughed. 

"  How  odd — when  you  give  an  order  I  see 
you  are  a  real  Englishman !  Or,  perhaps,  it  was 
the  poetry  I  quoted,  was  it?  .  .  .  Don't  mind 
me;  this  day,  this  air,  has  gone  to  my  head!  I 
must  laugh — at  you,  at  anything,  at  nothing !  " 

"  Well,  laugh,  but  put  on  your  sweater.  I 
hate  women  with  colds  in  their  heads." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  311 

He  stooped  down,  took  the  sweater  from  round 
her  waist  and  put  her  into  it. 

"  Now,  come  on — you  must  have  some  hot  milk 
to  drink,  or  you  may  be  a  little  dizzy.  People 
often  are,  getting  up  here." 

"  Dizzy?   No,  I  am  only  drunk  with  this  air!  " 

But  warned  by  a  slight  beating  in  her  ears  and 
temples,  she  got  up  and  they  rounded  the  corner 
into  the  plateau  of  Barmaz,  dotted  with  cows  and 
a  few  small  chalets.  A  charging  troop  of  cows 
drove  them  off  the  path.  Crayven  caught  Teresa 
with  one  arm  and  swept  her  up  on  a  hillock,  and 
the  cows  tore  past,  their  heads  down,  their  tails 
in  the  air,  their  huge  bodies  gambolling  wildly. 
Teresa  shrieked  with  laughter. 

"  That's  exactly  how  I  feel ! "  she  cried. 
"Now  I  know  how  a  Swiss  would  look,  if  he 
ever  enjoyed  himself!  But  he  doesn't — it's  only 
the  cows  that  are  sensitive  to  the  skyey  in- 
fluences !" 

Crayven  took  her  hand  and  led  her  down,  still 
laughing,  to  the  chalet  which  promised  "Bon, 
repos  " ;  and  ordered  hot  milk  and  lunch  on  the 
veranda. 

"  If  it  isn't  too  cold  for  you  out  here,"  he 
added. 

"Not  a  bit — it's  perfect,"  said  Teresa 
promptly,  establishing  herself  at  a  table. 

But  the  waitress,  with  sloe-black,  keen  eyes 
under  her  scarlet  head-dress,  enquired  if  a  room 


312  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

inside  was  desired  by  Madame.  There  was,  she 
said,  a  very  nice  private  room.  When  she  had 
gone,  Teresa  laughed  again. 

"  One  sees  that  we  are  on  the  Continent ! "  she 
said. 

Crayven  made  no  response,  and  looked  gravely 
at  her. 

"  How  sadly  you  take  your  pleasure,"  she  pro- 
tested. "  You  haven't  smiled  since  we  left  the 
Champs.  I  feel  gay,  light-hearted,  for  the  first 
time  in — oh,  ages — you  mustn't  be  dull!  I've 
forgiven  you  freely  for  being  interested  in  me 
only  because  I  remind  you  of  someone  else.  I'm 
glad  if  I  give  you  any  such  pleasure.  Now,  don't 
spoil  mine,  will  you?  " 

"  I'll  try  not  to,  Teresa,"  he  said,  gazing  stead- 
ily at  her. 


yi 

TERESA'S  pleasure  was  not  to  be  spoiled. 
Crayven's  grave  mood  only  added  to  the 
wild  gaiety  of  her  own,  which  lasted  all  the  way 
home.  She  drank  from  a  mountain  stream  and 
sprang  up,  declaring  that  the  draught  was  more 
intoxicating  than  champagne.  She  sang,  run- 
ning down  the  steep  descent  ahead  of  Crayven. 
Once  she  stopped  to  fasten  up  the  loosened  knot 
of  her  hair,  and  enquired  with  an  elfish  look : 

"  Do  I  remind  you  of  anybody  now?  " 

"  You  are  like  her,"  he  answered  coolly. 

"And  what  was  her  name — you  haven't  told 
me." 

"  Rosamond." 

"  Rosamond !  I  have  always  liked  that  name 
so  much — '  Rose  of  the  world ' " 

She  stopped,  gazing  at  him  with  a  sudden  soft- 
ness, a  sudden  feeling  for  his  romance. 

"Was  she  beautiful  enough  for  that  name?" 
she  asked. 

"  Beautiful — yes,  she  had  beauty — but  there 
was  a  grace  about  her — everything  she  did  was 
right,  somehow.  The  way  in  which  she  finally 
rejected  me  was  a  model  of  its  kind.  She  was  a 
thorough  artist." 

313 


314  T  H  E    B  O  N  D 

His  tone  was  mildly  reminiscent,  his  look  any- 
thing but  romantic  or  sentimental.  Teresa's 
sympathy  was  checked,  and  she  walked  on  more 
soberly. 

That  night  she  was  dining  at  Nina's  house, 
writh  some  of  the  French  colony.  She  arrived  a 
little  early  and  went  up  to  Nina's  room.  Nina 
was  dressing  with  her  usual  rapidity;  she  never 
spent  more  than  twenty  minutes  on  a  toilette. 
To-night  she  had  not  even  given  herself  time  to 
have  her  hair  done  by  the  Italian  maid.  Non- 
chalantly pinning  on  a  coil  of  false  hair,  she  said 
over  her  shoulder  to  Teresa: 

"  You  must  be  tired  from  your  day's  expe- 
dition." 

"Not  a  bit — I  haven't  felt  so  well  for  years. 
That  air  up  there  puts  life  into  one,  I've  never 
known  anything  so  wonderful!  It's  a  pity  you 
don't  walk,  Nina — you've  no  idea  how  delicious 
this  country  is,"  Teresa  answered  happily,  con- 
templating her  own  long  black  figure  in  a  mir- 
ror. She  was  wearing  a  gauze  dress  that  she 
especially  liked,  and  she  had  a  charming  colour 
from  her  day  on  the  heights. 
!  "  Would  you  take  me  as  third  on  your  walks?  " 
asked  Nina,  satirically. 

"  Of  course — why  not?  " 

"  Don't  be  hypocritical — you  wouldn't.  But 
do  you  think  you  ought  to  go  off  like  this,  alone, 
every  day?  People  notice  it." 


T  H  E    B  O  N  D  315 

"People?  What  people?"  said  Teresa,  dis- 
dainfully. 

"  Well,  for  example,  Miss  Melton  stopped  in 
here  at  six  o'clock  for  tea,  and  said  she  had  seen 
you  coming  down  through  the  wood,  with  your 
hands  full  of  flowers,  your  hat  hanging  on  your 
back,  singing,  she  said,  like  a  dryad,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.  You  can  hear  her  say- 
ing it." 

"  What  do  I  care  what  a  sharp  old  maid  says? 
What  do  I  care  about  any  of  these  people? 
They've  nothing  to  do  but  gossip.  I  don't  care 
one  single " 

"  I  know  you  don't — but  perhaps  you 

Well,  I've  told  you,  anyway,  what's  being  said." 

"  You  have.    Let  us  drop  the  topic." 

Teresa  serenely  gave  a  last  touch  to  her  hair, 
and  went  downstairs,  the  colour  in  her  cheeks 
slightly  heightened. 

She  had  been  quite  aware,  before  this,  that 
Nina  disapproved  her  walks  with  Crayven. 
Ernesto,  too,  had  been  for  the  first  time  sulky 
and  cool  to  her.  He  had  spent  the  last  week  at 
Montreux,  but  now  he  was  back,  and  lie  met 
her  in  the  drawing-room  with  a  smiling  compli- 
ment to  her  appearance. 

"  You  look  radiant — your  long  country  walks 
do  agree  with  you,"  he  remarked,  kissing  the 
tips  of  her  fingers  in  his  most  feline  manner. 

"  Why  are  you  trying  to  be  disagreeable? " 


316  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

asked  Teresa  with  a  direct  glance  at  him.  "  Do 
you  really  want  me  to  dislike  you?  " 

Ernesto  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It  isn't  for  me  to  choose.  You  do  dislike  me, 
or  at  least  you  don't  like  me,  which  is  the  same 
thing,  or  worse.  You  threw  me  over  in  a  minute 
when  this  dear  friend  appeared.  Certainly,  I  am 
hurt." 

His  deep,  impenetrable  eyes  rested  upon  her 
sentimentally,  with  something  of  mockery  in 
their  soft  gaze.  Teresa  looked  back  at  him  curi- 
ously, wondering  what  his  mind  really  was  like, 
and  feeling  tolerably  sure  that  it  was  a  sink  of 
iniquity.  Or,  rather,  after  all,  he  was  a  thorough 
Italian — what  else  could  one  expect  him  to 
think?  .  .  .  The  worst  was,  that  Nina  would 
think  as  he  did. 

Next  day  Konald  was  ill.  The  child  had 
strayed  into  a  patch  of  currant  bushes  and 
gorged  himself,  and  his  carefully  guarded 
digestion  had  succumbed  to  the  sudden  shock; 
he  was  prostrated  with  fever.  Teresa  stayed 
beside  him  all  day,  banishing  the  nurse,  to 
whom  she  had  given  a  furious  scolding.  In 
the  afternoon  Konald  wanted  to  be  amused, 
and  tiring  finally  of  the  clay  animals  which 
Teresa  was  modelling  for  him,  he  demanded  "  the 
Man."  This  was  his  name  for  Crayven,  for  whom 
he  had  had,  at  first,  a  great  liking.  Crayven  had 
given  him  a  number  of  toys,  and  played  with  him 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  317 

delightfully,  showing  a  genuine  interest  and 
pleasure  in  the  child.  But  of  late  this  had  fallen 
off  somewhat,  and  Teresa  had  more  than  one 
compunctious  memory  of  Ronald's  small,  lonely 
figure  and  wistful  glance  as  he  besought  her  to 
come  and  sail  his  boats  or  "  play  horse,"  but  was 
left  behind  while  she  went  off  with  Crayven. 
His  fondness  for  "  the  Man  "  had  visibly  cooled, 
and  Teresa  wondered  what  vague  perception 
might  be  stirring  in  his  mind.  Ronald  knew 
more  than  he  could  or  would  say,  she  was  sure 
of  that;  this  characteristic  of  childhood  he  had 
in  unusual  measure,  being  naturally  reflective 
and  reserved.  Teresa  now,  as  she  poured  out  her 
tenderness  for  him,  loving  every  lock  of  his  dis- 
hevelled bronze  hair,  every  movement  of  his 
dimpled  brown  hands,  resolved  to  be  much  more 
with  him  in  future.  She  blamed  herself  for  leav- 
ing him  so  much  to  the  nurse,  whom  she  knew  he 
did  not  especially  like. 

At  his  reiterated  demand  she  sent  a  note  to 
Crayven,  who  came  over  at  once. 

"  I  thought  you  might  have  been  walking  to- 
day— it's  such  wonderful  weather,"  she  said  as 
she  took  him  to  Ronald's  room. 

"  No — I  thought  perhaps  you'd  go  out  after 
tea  for  a  stroll." 

"  I  can't,  I'm  afraid.  Ronald  can't  bear  the 
sight  of  his  nurse,  now  he's  ill.  I  must  stay  with 
him." 


318  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Eonald  greeted  Crayven  with  a  faint  smile, 
and  listened  indifferently  to  remarks  about  his 
health  and  the  advisability  of  letting  currants 
alone  in  future.  Then  he  said : 

"  Want  to  see  the  tick-tick." 

Crayven  took  out  his  repeater  and  rang  the 
hour,  opened  the  case  and  showed  the  wheels. 
Ronald  devoted  ten  minutes  to  a  grave  considera- 
tion of  the  watch,  then  said :  "  Show  us  the  knife." 

Crayven  produced  a  bunch  of  gold  trinkets 
attached  to  a  chain ;  a  cigarette-  and  match-case, 
a  cigar-cutter,  a  pencil,  and  penknife.  These  oc- 
cupied Ronald  for  some  twenty  minutes. 

"  Have  you  got  the  dog?"  he  enquired  next. 

Crayven  fetched  his  walking-stick,  the  top  of 
which  was  admirably  carved  into  an  animal-head, 
and  laid  it  on  the  bed,  saying : 

"  I  brought  this  for  you  to  keep,  old  fellow. 
It's  yours  now." 

Ronald  clutched  the  stick  with  an  expression 
of  such  joy  that  Teresa  had  not  the  heart  to  pro- 
test, and  smiled  radiantly  at  Crayven,  whose 
dark  eyes  softened  oddly  as  he  looked  at  the 
child  and  then  up  at  Teresa. 

"  Now  sing,"  said  Ronald. 

With  a  look  at  Teresa,  Crayven  said  apolo- 
getically : 

"  Well,  old  man,  perhaps  your  mother  would 
rather  I  didn't.  It  makes  a  good  deal  of  noise 
in  a  room " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  319 

"  Sing!  "  said  Ronald,  and  his  face  contracted 
with  a  menace  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  do,  if  you  don't  mind/'  urged  Teresa 
hastily. 

Crayven,  with  a  deprecating  smile,  threw  back 
his  head  and  gave  the  Moslem  call  to  prayer,  in 
a  clear,  ringing,  echoing  falsetto,  an  astonishing 
volume  of  sound,  penetrating,  strange,  dying 
away  in  a  long  melancholy  high  note.  Ronald's 
face  lit  up  with  a  look  of  perfect  satisfaction; 
throwing  out  a  toy  elephant,  which  had  occupied 
the  post  of  honour  in  his  bed,  and  putting  the 
walking-stick  in  its  place,  he  lay  back  on  his 
pillow,  languidly  content. 

"Aunt  Teresa,  can  I  come  in?"  said  a  small, 
sharp  voice  at  the  door. 

It  was  Ernestine,  befrilled  and  beplumed, 
bringing  a  bunch  of  flowers  for  Ronald. 

"  Oh,  poor  little  fellow,"  she  murmured, 
bending  coquettishly  over  the  bed  to  kiss  him. 

Ronald  repulsed  her  vigorously  and  would 
have  none  of  the  flowers.  Ernestine  had  once 
slapped  him,  and  his  dignified  little  personality 
had  never  forgiven  the  affront.  He  now  began 
to  cry  with  fatigue,  and  both  the  visitors  had  to 
go.  Crayven  said,  as  he  took  Teresa's  hand: 

"This  is  good-bye  for  a  day  or  so,  I'm  sorry 
to  say.  I've  had  a  telegram  from  Adela — she  ar- 
rives to-night  at  Montreux  for  a  few  days.  She's 
motoring  about.  I'm  going  down  by  the  night 


320  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

post.  ...  I  wonder  if  you  and  your  sister  and 
sister-in-law  and  Count  Pepoli  would  conae  down 
for  a  day  and  lunch  or  dine  with  her?  " 

"  I'll  find  out  and  telegraph  you,  or  telephone," 
said  Teresa. 

He  gave  her  his  hotel  address,  and,  with  a 
melancholy  look,  and  a  long  pressure  of  the  hand, 
departed. 

The  meeting  was  arranged  for  two  days  later. 
Crayven  had  included  Edith  in  his  invitation, 
though  he  was  ordinarily  barely  courteous  to  her. 
He  disliked  her,  and  her  sad,  melting  smiles  had 
impressed  him  in  exactly  the  opposite  way  to  that 
designed.  He  was,  of  course,  not  informed  of  her 
present  circumstances,  and  therefore  her  attitude 
of  the  pathetic  victim  was  lost  upon  him.  It  did 
not  occur  to  Nina  that  Edith  would  want  to  go 
and  lunch  at  Montreux.  She  had  played  the  in- 
valid ever  since  her  nervous  attack;  appeared 
not  to  be  able  to  walk  more  than  a  few  steps  from 
the  house ;  and  declared  that  because  of  Egisto's 
continued  silence  and  his  returning  her  letters 
unopened,  she  could  not  sleep  a  moment  without 
the  aid  of  drugs.  Therefore,  Nina  was  surprised 
and  discomfited  when  Edith  announced  her  in- 
tention of  going  with  the  others. 

"  I  can't  see  how  she  can  want  to  meet  people 
— strangers — just  now,  can  you?  "  she  said  to 
Teresa.  "  And  I  don't  want  to  take  her.  There's 
a  party  of  them — we  don't  know  whom  we  may 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  321 

meet — and  it  will  look  as  though  we'd  definitely 
taken  her  side,  if  anything  comes  out — and  I  be- 
lieve that's  what  she  wants.  Egisto  would  be 
furious  if  he  knew  we  were  taking  her  about  like 
that.  Ernesto  doesn't  want  her  to  go.  And  it's 
foolish  from  her  own  point  of  view — her  only 
chance  is  in  keeping  quiet.  I  told  her  that,  and 
she  cried,  and  said  we  treated  her  as  if  she  were 
a  criminal,  in  disgrace.  Well,  so  she  is." 

"  The  world  is  hard  on  women,"  said  Teresa, 
after  a  pause.  "  Poor  thing." 

"  You  mean  I'm  hard  on  her?    But  I " 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  you,  I  mean  society  in 
general." 

"Well,  a  woman  can't  be  a  fool,  you  know, 
without  paying  for  it.  We  are  held  more  strictly 
to  account  than  men,  if  that's  what  you  mean — 
but  we  all  know  it  and  know  it  must  be  so.  I 
wish  you'd  talk  to  her,  Teresa.  She  thinks  I'm 
down  on  her,  and  Ernesto  won't  say  a  word. 
She'll  take  it  from  you — she  likes  you." 

"  Does  she?  I  can't  see  why,"  said  Teresa,  re- 
luctantly. 

"Well,  she  does.  Do  make  her  see  reason, 
there's  a  good  soul.  I'm  fairly  bothered  out  of 
my  life.  If  she  insists  on  going,  I  shall  telegraph 
that  the  whole  thing  is  off." 

Teresa  did  not  want  the  whole  thing  to  be  off, 
and,  moved  partly  by  this  feeling  and  partly  by 
pity  for  Nina,  she  went  up  to  Edith's  room.  It 


322  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

was  midday,  but  Edith  was  not  yet  up.  The 
room  smelt  of  perfumes  and  cigarettes  and  the 
windows  were  shut,  as  there  was  a  fog  outside. 
Edith  lay  in  bed  reading  the  Confessions  of  St. 
Augustine,  with  her  hair  in  curl  papers. 

"  I've  had  an  awful  night,"  she  said  pathetic- 
ally. "Nina  knows  I  oughtn't  to  have  any  sort 
of  disturbance,  and  yet  she  made  a  scene  yester- 
day about  my  going  down  to  Montreux.  Don't 
you  think  it's  unkind  of  her  to  try  to  shut  me  up, 
as  though  I  were  insane  or  something?  "  And 
her  chin  quivered  piteously. 

"  All  the  same,  you  mustn't  go,"  said  Teresa 
calmly. 

"  Why  not?    Are  you,  too,  against  me?  " 

"  You  must  do  as  Nina  wishes,  else  she  won't 
help  you — and  you  need  her.  And  if  your  hus- 
band heard  of  your  going  about  like  that,  he 
wouldn't  believe  much  in  your — well,  it  wouldn't 
make  him  feel  more  kindly  toward  you,  would  it, 
now?  " 

"  It  isn't  from  lack  of  feeling  I  wanted  to  go. 
Heaven  knows  I  feel  things  enough — too  much. 
That's  just  it." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  I  assure  you,  you  mustn't 
do  it.  You  mustn't  offend  Nina." 

Edith  looked  sullen,  and  after  a  pause  cried 
passionately : 

"  Shall  I  ever  again  be  able  to  do  anything  I 
choose — or  shall  I  be  somebody's  slave  all  my 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  323 

life?  Oh,  what  a  fool,  what  a  fool  I  have  been 
— to  let  people  get  me  into  their  power  this 
way ! " 

And  she  began  to  weep  again  with  rage  and 
nervous  misery,  crumpling  up  the  St.  Augustine 
under  her  feverish,  flabby  body. 

Teresa  felt  a  shudder  of  pitying  repulsion. 
How  was  it  possible  that  anyone  could  so  utterly  * 
go  to  pieces  morally,  could  so  sink  to  be,  as 
Edith  herself  had  said,  the  slave  of  other  people? 
Weakness  made  one  a  slave,  true — but  not  nec- 
essarily as  Nina  meant  when  she  pointed  her 
moral  with  Edith.  Edith  had  been  a  fool — but 
she  might  have  done  whatever  she  had  done,  and 
not  have  been  a  fool.  To  love  was  not  folly — it 
was  only  folly  to  be  trivial. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Two  days  later  Teresa  drove  down  with  the 
Pepolis,  and  without  Edith,  reluctant  to  leave 
Ronald  for  a  whole  day,  though  he  was  now  quite 
recovered,  but  unable  to  resist  her  curiosity  to 
see  Crayven's  wife.  It  was  hot  in  the  plain,  com- 
ing down  out  of  the  freshness  of  the  mountain 
heights;  and  the  little  town  of  Montreux  glit- 
tered meretriciously  in  imitation  smartness, 
crowded  in  between  the  hills  and  the  swimming 
turquoise-blue  of  the  lake.  The  luncheon-party 
had  the  same  air  of  smartness,  the  misfortune  of 
which  was  that  it,  too,  had  a  factitious  air. 
Adela  Crayven  and  her  friends  were  all  of  the 


324  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

same  tone — a  tone  maintained  as  artificially  as 
were  their  looks.  They  all  had  the  air  of  exist- 
ing on  stimulants,  of  one  sort  or  another,  and  of 
dreading  a  single  lapse  from  briskness. 

Adela  was  a  woman  who  suggested  forty  years 
by  the  very  elaboration  of  her  youthful  get- 
up;  beautifully  dressed,  wonderfully  cared-for, 
'breathing  a  luxury  which  could  never  forget 
itself  for  a  moment.  She  was  tall  and  blonde, 
and  her  porcelain-blue  eyes  had  a  look  of  know- 
ing the  price  of  everything,  and  of  being  quite 
determined  to  have  the  worth  of  her  money.  She 
greeted  Teresa  without  effusion,  with  a  certain 
frank,  amused  curiosity;  much  in  the  same  way 
she  seemed  to  regard  her  husband,  but  without 
the  curiosity. 

Ernesto  was  in  his  element  and  happy,  dis- 
cussing the  frivolous  menu  and  flirting  to  right 
and  left ;  Nina  was  out  of  it.  Teresa,  placed  be- 
tween Crayven  and  the  other  man  of  the  party, 
a  bald  young  man  with  a  drooping  blonde  mous- 
tache and  an  eye  as  knowing  as  Adela's,  but  more 
languid,  felt  a  keener  liking,  a  keener  sympathy, 
.  for  Crayven.  They  two,  after  all,  belonged  to  the 
same  world — a  world  which  ignored  Adela's,  as 
she  ignored  theirs.  She  was  thoroughly  glad  to 
have  seen  Crayven's  wife,  to  have  this  additional 
light  on  him,  and  to  feel  that  he  had  wanted  her 
to  have  it.  The  marriage  itself  was  a  mystery  to 
her.  Adela  apparently  had  the  money.  Why 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  325 

had  she  married  Crayven?  Why  had  he  been 
willing  to  marry  her? 

Teresa  was  quite  aware  that  her  own  position 
in  the  company  was  that  of  "  Crayven's  flame.'* 
Adela,  no  doubt,  had  heralded  her  in  that  capac- 
ity to  her  friends.  She  could  see  it  in  the  eyes 
of  the  other  two  women — mother  and  daughter, 
with  a  puzzlingly  equal  quality  of  jaded  youth. 
She  knew  that  Crayven's  plan  for  the  summer 
had  been  altered  because  of  her,  and  undoubtedly 
Adela  knew  it,  too.  Possibly  he  had  been  ex- 
pected to  join  the  motoring-party.  That  seemed 
unlikely,  yet  a  few  words  of  Adela's  indicated  it. 
Nothing,  at  any  rate,  was  farther  from  his  idea 
at  present,  as  he  plainly  showed. 

The  luncheon  prolonged  itself  in  liqueurs  and 
cigarettes  till  after  three  o'clock.  Ernesto  ar- 
ranged that  they  should  all  meet  again  for  tea, 
to  the  music  of  the  band.  Then  he  was  to  dine 
with  Adela,  who  was  obviously  pleased  with  him ; 
but  Nina  and  Teresa  started  at  six  on  their  drive 
back  up  the  mountain.  Crayven  said,  as  he  put 
them  into  the  carriage : 

"  They're  all  off  to-morrow,  thank  heaven.  I 
shall  come  up  by  the  late  post." 

Next  morning  came  a  telephone  message  from 
Ernesto  to  Nina,  ordering  clothes  to  be  sent 
down  to  him  by  special  messenger.  He  was  going 
off  for  a  fortnight  in  the  motor.  Nina  sent  the 
clothes,  and  came  to  pour  out  her  woes  to  Teresa. 


326  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  When  he  knows  that  we  came  up  here  only 
to  have  a  cheap  summer,  and  that  it's  absolutely 
necessary  for  us  to  economise!  Heaven  knows 
what  he  won't  spend  now — expensive  hotels  and 

cards  and Did  you  see  how  that  woman 

looked  at  him?  She  just  put  out  her  hand  and 
gathered  him  in — and  he,  of  course — anybody 
can  make  a  fool  of  Ernesto !  I  must  say,  Teresa, 
I  think  your  Mr.  Crayven  would  do  well  to  go 
and  look  after  his  wife,  instead  of " 

"  Poor  man,"  said  Teresa  feelingly.  "  It's 
quite  evident  now  why  he  lives  in  the  desert,  isn't 
it?" 

But  Nina's  sense  of  injury,  though  its  expres- 
sion died  away  inarticulately,  remained.  Teresa 
felt  that  she  was  blamed  because  Ernesto  had 
gone  off  in  the  motor,  whereas  the  real  reason 
undoubtedly  was  that  his  domestic  situation  was 
uncomfortable  and  boring. 


VII 

THREE  days  later,  without  warning,  Egisto 
di  Pepoli  arrived.  He  walked  into  the 
drawing-room  where  Nina,  Teresa,  and  Crayven 
were  taking  tea — a  rather  short,  powerfully 
made  man  with  a  ruddy  face  and  gleaming  black 
eyes.  Teresa  had  never  seen  him  before,  but 
Nina  sprang  to  her  feet  and  cried,  "  Egisto ! " 

He  kissed  her  cheek  perfunctorily,  bowed  to 
the  others,  and  said,  abruptly,  "  Where  is 
Edith?" 

"  Lying  down  with  a  headache,"  Nina  said. 
She  had  turned  quite  pale. 

"  Will  you  tell  her  I  am  here?  " 

Nina  went  into  the  hall,  beckoning  to  Teresa. 

"  Don't  go,"  she  whispered.  "  But  do  get 
Crayven  away — there's  going  to  be  an  awful  row. 
You  wait  up  in  my  room,  will  you?  Don't  go, 
Teresa — I  don't  know  what  will  happen.  .  .  ." 

She  seemed  terrified,  and  was  urging  Teresa  to 
take  Crayven  away,  and  not  to  leave  her,  when 
Crayven  himself  came  out  to  take  leave.  His  face 
was  inexpressive,  but  it  was  clear  that  he  had 
felt  something  of  the  situation.  He  went  away ; 
Teresa  stood  on  the  verandah  for  a  moment  with 
him,  and  promised  a  long  walk  next  day — "  if 
I  can,"  she  added  absently. 

327 


328  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

His  eyes  rested  on  her  with  a  look  of  separat- 
ing her  from  the  rest  of  the  world — a  soft,  im- 
perious look. 

"  You  must  come — I've  only  a  few  days  left," 
he  said. 

Then  he  walked  away  slowly,  and  Teresa  went 
upstairs.  As  she  reached  the  landing  a  door 
opened  and  Nina  came  out  with  Edith.  Edith 
passed  Teresa  without  seeing  her,  and  Teresa 
stared  at  her,  fascinated.  Edith  was  wrapped  in 
a  silk  dressing-gown,  her  hair  was  carelessly 
rolled  up;  she  had  not  stopped  to  think  of  her 
appearance.  Her  face  was  pale,  her  blue  eyes 
looked  intensely  dark  and  large,  her  mouth  was 
firmly  set.  Teresa  did  not  know  the  flabby  crea- 
ture who  had  wept  and  hung  upon  them  all. 
She  held  herself  erect  and  walked  quickly  down- 
stairs, and  half-way  down  she  turned  and  said 
with  calm  resolution: 

"  No,  Nina,  I  don't  want  you." 

Nina  stopped,  her  hand  on  the  railing,  till 
Edith  had  gone  into  the  drawing-room  and  shut 
the  door.  The  two  sisters,  in  Nina's  room,  could 
hear  the  murmur  of  voices  echoing  between  the 
wooden  walls.  At  first  it  was  only  Egisto's  voice, 
harsh  and  vehement,  pouring  out  a  flood  of  rapid 
staccato  Italian.  Then  Edith's,  ringing  and 
hard.  Then  the  two  together,  rising  in  key,  till 
what  they  said  was  audible.  Nina  shut  her  door 
and  sat  down,  putting  her  hands  over  her  ears. 


329 

"  Thank  heaven,  they're  talking  it  out,"  she 
said.  "  I  was  afraid  he'd  come  up  to  murder  her. 
.  .  .  But,  oh,  the  talking's  bad  enough.  You've 
no  idea  what  an  Italian  family  row  is  like !  " 

Teresa  got  some  idea  of  what  it  was  like  as  the 
voices  went  on  for  an  hour ;  Egisto's  like  a  bull's 
bellow;  Edith's  breaking  in,  sharp  and  hard  as 
steel,  gradually  predominating,  bearing  down 
with  a  sheer  nervous  intensity  of  will,  under 
which,  at  last,  the  male  violence  sank  into  an  ex- 
hausted mumble.  Nina  sat  the  whole  time  with 
her  hands  over  her  ears  and  an  expression  of 
such  misery  on  her  face  that  Teresa  went  and 
put  her  arms  about  her. 

"  Don't  feel  so  about  them — I  daresay  it  will 
come  out  all  right,"  she  urged. 

"  It  can't  come  right !  "  cried  Nina.  "  She  will 
get  the  better  of  him  now — she'll  get  her  way. 
But  she's  bad— bad !  " 

Suddenly  the  door  below  was  flung  open  and 
Egisto  cried  out  for  Nina.  She  sprang  up  and 
ran  downstairs.  Teresa  heard  a  confused  mur- 
mur, then  Nina  called  out  to  her  to  bring  some 
water  and  the  smelling-salts  from  Edith's  room. 
She  got  a  glass  of  water,  but  could  not  find  the 
salts.  As  she  came  out  on  the  landing  they  were 
bringing  Edith  upstairs.  Nina  was  supporting 
her,  but  after  mounting  a  few  steps  Edith's  tall 
figure  seemed  to  collapse.  She  wavered  back 
toward  Egisto,  who  was  a  step  below,  and  with 


330  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

an  exclamation  he  pushed  Nina  aside,  gathered 
his  wife  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  upstairs, 
stumbling  once  or  twice  on  her  loose  gown. 
Teresa  saw  his  face,  drawn  and  passionate;  hate 
was  in  it,  and  a  feeling  stronger  than  hate.  And 
over  his  shoulder,  as  he  brushed  past  her,  she  saw 
the  white  face  of  the  victorious  woman — a  cruel 
face,  with  lowered  eyelids  and  contented  mouth. 

That  night  Edith  kept  her  room,  and  kept 
Egisto  beside  her.  Her  maid  was  hurriedly  pack- 
ing. They  were  to  leave  the  next  morning. 
Egisto  had  made  his  conditions.  Edith  was  to  go 
to  the  family  place  at  Castiglione  di  Pepoli  and 
live  there  with  her  mother-in-law,  whom  she 
hated,  at  Egisto's  pleasure.  She  yielded  without 
question,  having  won  her  victory;  other  things 
could  be  arranged  later. 

Nina  kept  Teresa  to  dinner,  which  neither  of 
them  could  eat.  Ernestine  was  with  them,  her 
cheeks  aflame,  asking  inconvenient  questions, 
which  the  governess  pretended  to  repress.  The 
murmur  of  those  two  voices,  heard  now  from 
above,  seemed  somehow  to  fill  the  house.  The 
closed  room  and  its  drama  was  in  the  thoughts 
of  all,  even  the  uncanny  child  was  preoccupied 
with  it.  Teresa  felt  herself  trembling  with  desire 
to  be  gone.  An  overwhelming  sense  of  disgust 
was  upon  her.  She  fled  as  soon  as  the  farce  of 
dinner  was  over,  and  walked  alone  through  the 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  331 

fields  in  the  soft  night,  where  starlight,  and  the 
cool  breath  sifting  down  from  the  mountain- 
peaks,  and  the  murmur  of  the  streams,  quieted 
after  a  time  her  racked  nerves.  It  was  not  alto- 
gether clear  to  her  why  this  event  should  disurb 
her  so  deeply,  why  she  should  so  hate  the  whole 
affair  and  want  passionately  as  she  did  to  erase 
it  from  her  mind.  Above  all  she  desired  that 
Crayven  should  not  know  of  it,  and  she  wondered 
how  much  he  did  know.  At  least  he  would  not 
speak  of  it. 

But  she  knew  what  he  would  think  of  it,  what 
Basil  would  think,  what  any  man  she  knew  would 
think — the  light  contempt  that  would  be  Edith's 
portion  from  them  all.  Men  were  harder  on 
women  than  other  women,  she  thought.  No  man 
was  above  taking  his  advantage  from  a  woman's 
weakness — none  that  would  not  despise  her  for 
it  after.  Men  were  more  conventional  than 
women,  she  thought.  Basil  was  conventional  in 
that  way,  Crayven  undoubtedly  was.  .  .  . 

There  was  the  other  side,  too.  Women  took 
terrible  revenges.  There  were  men  possessed,  as 
Egisto  was,  by  a  passion  that  carried  hatred  with 
it,  a  pure  torment.  There  were  women  who 
reached  out  for  men,  captured  them  perhaps  for 
a  month  or  a  year — as  Isabel  had  done.  Only  in 
this  case,  too,  the  woman  usually  got  the  worst 
of  it.  Isabel,  she  was  fairly  sure,  had  got  the 
worst  of  it.  What  could  a  woman  do,  in  fact,  and 


332  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

not  get  the  worst  of  it?  Absolute  faithfulness  to 
a  man  meant  being  treated  as  Nina  was  treated, 
as — Basil  had  treated  her.  She  stopped  still  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  her  head  bowed  and  her 
hands  clenched  in  the  physical  suffering  that 
always  came  with  this  thought.  It  hurt  her  too 
much — the  sting  of  it  had  only  grown  sharper 
with  time — and  she  saw  that  it  might  be  a  per- 
petual suffering,  and  that  she  could  never  get 
free  from  Basil,  no  matter  what  he  did.  He 
was  to  her  what  Edith  was  to  Egisto — a  passion 
— and  she  felt  that  she  might  hate  him,  too.  One 
could  not  help  hating  unkindness,  selfishness, 
hardness — and  Basil  had  injured  her,  had  made 
her  harder  and  more  indifferent  about  hurting 
him.  No — more  that  that.  She  wanted  to  hurt 
him. 

She  walked  on  a  few  steps  and  stopped  again, 
and  repeated  to  herself,  recognising  it  fully  for 
the  first  time,  that  she  wanted  to  hurt  Basil. 
And  it  would  be  easy  to  hurt  him — he  had  shown 
himself  susceptible  enough.  He  had  even  said 
that  she  could  make  him  suffer  infinitely  more 
than  she  could  suffer  through  him.  The  world 
said,  too,  that  a  man's  infidelity  was  nothing; 
even  the  wife's  pride  need  not  suffer  because  of 
it.  ...  Well,  all  that  she  knew  was  that  she 
suffered,  world  or  no  world,  convention  or  no 
convention — and  that  the  pain  of  her  jealousy 
was  as  sharp  as  her  love  of  Basil's  beauty.  .  .  . 


,T  H  E     B  O  N  D  333 

His  face  came  up  before  her  now,  as  she  stood 
with  closed  eyes — its  clear,  vigorous  lines,  the 
beautiful  mouth,  the  keen  eyes  and  tawny  hair. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  a  year  had  gone  since  she 
left  him.  All  the  same,  she  would  not  go  back 
until.  .  .  . 

She  went  on,  shaking  her  head;  and  moodily 
wondered,  on  a  sudden,  what  was  Crayven's  real 
idea  of  her.  She  had  not  heretofore  cared  much 
what  it  was.  She  had  liked  him,  and  had  taken 
him  as  an  anodyne  to  her  mental  pain.  He  was 
the  only  person  near  her  at  present  who  did  not 
throw  her  back  distressingly  upon  herself.  It 
was  his  strength  that  he  was  a  stranger  to  her, 
that  he  gave  her,  a  new  outlook,  different  ideas, 
and,  perhaps,  feelings.  With  him  all  her  in- 
stincts for  gaiety,  for  play,  woke  again.  She  had 
been  conscious  that  she  was  charming  him,  that 
there  was  an  emotional  element  in  their  relation, 
and  she  had  done  nothing  to  guard  against  it. 
Nina's  protest  was  not  necessary  to  show  her 
that  she  had  been  unconventional.  But  she  had 
a  serene  contempt  for  convention  and,  at  bottom, 
in  spite  of  her  desire  to  be  liked,  for  other  peo- 
ple's opinion  of  her.  In  the  people  she  liked,  she 
counted  upon  enough  intelligence  to  see  her  for 
what  she  was. 

But  after  all,  what  did  she  know  really  about 
Crayven's  intelligence?  All  that  she  did  know 
of  him  went  to  show  that  his  relations  with  hu- 


THE     BOND 

man  beings  had  not  been  successful.  His  love- 
affair — his  marriage — both  had  been  failures. 
There  must  be  a  lack  of  comprehension  in  him,  of 
himself,  of  people,  of  life.  His  matter-of-fact  bit- 
terness, the  aridity  of  his  feeling  about  the  world, 
showed  that.'  It  did  not  show  lack  of  feeling — 
but  disappointment,  frustration.  An  emotion 
of  pity  and  of  tenderness  for  him  stirred  in  her, 
and  regret  for  what  she  felt  had  been  her  own 
egotistic  attitude  toward  him.  She  had  not 
really  thought  of  him  at  all,  but  only  of  the  pleas- 
ure he  gave  her.  Now  she  began  to  care  how  she 
appeared  to  him,  to  care  for  his  feeling  about 
her,  to  wonder  how  far  it  was  genuine,  to  desire 
that  it  should  not  be  any  commonplace  sense  of 
adventure  that  attracted  him.  She  felt  suddenly 
insecure,  and  both  proud  and  humble — con- 
scious of  the  faults  she  had  shown  him,  no  longer 
indifferent  to  his  opinion  of  them,  but  not  able 
to  endure  the  thought  that  he  should  take  her  at 
anything  but  her  best.  .  .  .  But  what  was  her 
best,  after  all?  Why  should  anyone  seriously 
like  her?  She  sat  down  on  a  bench  by  the  road- 
side, and  bowed  her  head  in  real  humility.  It 
was  still  early  evening,  and  groups  of  people  from 
the  hotels  passed  by  before  her.  Down  the  one 
street,  in  a  glare  of  electric  light,  the  band  was 
playing  sentimental  wraltzes.  She  felt  suddenly 
very  much  alone,  very  small.  "  An  egotist — 
that's  what  I  am,"  she  was  saying  to  herself. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  335 

Why  should  anyone  care  for  her — unless  it  were 
indeed  with  that  amour  passion  which  takes  no 
account  of  liking  or  disliking,  approval  or  dis- 
approval? She  had  that  feeling  for  Basil,  and 
she  doubted  that  he  had  it  for  her.  What  he  had 
for  her  was  really  the  amour  gout;  he  found  her 
amusing,  he  delighted  in  her  beauty,  he  had  ten- 
derness for  her,  deep  affection — but  he  had  not 
the  passion  that  could  bind  him  to  her  beyond 
possibility  of  change.  Here — here — was  the  rea- 
son of  her  intense  feeling  at  the  discovery  of  his 
relation  with  another  woman.  Instinct  told  her 
— had  told  her  from  the  first — that  she  might 
lose  him.  Her  jealousy  was  a  spasm  of  fear. 
.  .  .  She  thought  of  Edith  and  of  the  look  on 
Egisto's  dark  face.  There  was  a  man  who  was 
held — who  was  forced  to  act  in  spite  of  himself, 
against  his  will,  by  a  woman  he  despised  at 
heart.  And  it  was  in  that  way  that  she  herself 
was  held.  There  must  be  something  base  in  such 

a  passion .    But,  no!  something  in  her  cried 

out — it  was  terrible,  terribly  beautiful,  deep  as 
the  nature  that  held  it,  deeper  than  right  OP 
wrong.  She  had  wished  sometimes  that  she  could 
kill  her  love  for  Basil — but  she  knew  that  with  it 
would  go  her  life. 


ym 

YOU  might  call  it  fidelity  to  type,  I  suppose," 
said  Crayven,  with  an  odd,  twisted  smile. 
"At  any  rate,  there  it  is.  I  don't  expect  it  to 
make  any  difference  to  you — why  should  it?  You 
have  your  own  life — happy,  or  at  least  full  of 
interest.  You  don't  need  me.  I  saw  that  from 
the  first.  But  if  it  had  been  different— good 
Lord,  what  a  difference !  " 

"  How  different?  "  murmured  Teresa. 

"  Oh,  if  you  had  not  been  bound — really 
bound — I  would  have  taken  you  away  with  me. 
You  would  like  the  life  out  there — or  if  not,  I'd 
have  gone  anywhere,  done  anything  else  you 
liked.  I've  money  enough,  and  Adela — could 
shift  for  herself.  I  could  divorce  her  any  day." 

Crayven's  eyes  gleamed  hard  and  fierce.  In 
emotion,  the  strain  of  un-English  blood  in  him 
came  out  strongly.  He  was  another  creature. 
The  imperious  will  to  live  and  to  enjoy,  the  un- 
reflective,  passionate  surge  of  life,  had  broken  up 
and  swept  away  all  the  mask  of  indifference  and 
control.  His  face  was  ten  years  younger. 

Teresa  looked  at  him,  fascinated.  He  set  a 
new  world  about  her.  The  strange  possibilities 
of  life — the  fact  that  all  one's  life  might  have 

336 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  337 

been  different — might  even  be  different — rushed 
upon  her  in  a  dizzying  flood.  Her  world  seemed 
suddenly  to  become  unreal,  pale — she  lost  her 
grasp  upon  it,  in  the  feeling  that  another  choice 
had  been  possible.  And  something  deep  in  her 
answered  to  Crayven's  emotion — a  deep  corre- 
spondence of  temperament,  some  sort  of  inevit- 
able affinity.  And  a  wild  sense  of  the  adventure 
of  life,  a  desire  to  set  back  once  more  the  bound- 
aries of  experience,  to  launch  into  the  unfamiliar, 
stirred  in  her. 

"  Strange — I  could  have  loved  you,"  she  said 
wonderingly. 

"  Then  love  me !  Good  God !  if  you  only  knew 
how  lonely  I  am — how  stale  life  seems  to  me! 
I  want  a  little  happiness  before  I  die ! " 

He  was  sitting  beside  her  on  the  turf,  and  now 
he  flung  himself  full-length,  hiding  his  face  on 
his  arms. 

Before  them  the  green  meadow  sloped  sharply 
to  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  below  which,  two  thou- 
sand feet  below,  lay  the  valley  they  had  climbed 
from.  Behind  them  lay  a  tiny  lake,  fed  by  a 
glacier,  and  the  sheer,  naked,  rough  walls  of 
rock,  the  untrodden  peaks  of  the  range.  The 
horizon  was  one  round  of  serrated  peaks.  They 
were  in  absolute  solitude.  Far  below  in  the  val- 
ley cow-bells  tinkled  faintly;  and  a  swarm  of 
insects  danced  and  hummed  in  the  warm  sun 
over  the  meadow-flowers. 


338  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Teresa  was  silent.  Clasping  her  hands  about 
her  knees  she  gazed  inscrutably  at  the  blue  cone 
of  a  mountain  that  rose  in  France.  The  sun 
burned  her  shoulders,  the  distant  snow  sparkled 
coolly,  a  light  wind  swept  the  feathery  tops  of 
the  grass  and  the  purple  hare-bells. 

"  What  a  delicious  day,"  she  said  vaguely. 

Then,  after  a  silence,  how  long  it  was  she  did 
not  know,  she  said: 

"  I  wish  I  could." 

At  last  Crayven  moved,  sat  up,  took  out  his 
cigarette-case. 

"  Will  you  have  one?  "  he  said  with  a  tired 
smile. 

She  looked  at  his  eyes — there  had  been  tears 
in  them — and  bent  forward  and  kissed  him. 

"  I  do  love  you,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  murmured  resignedly.  "  That 
way." 

"  That  way?    Are  there  so  many  ways,  then?  " 

"  There's  only  one  way.  Either  it  is  that  or  it 
isn't.  .  .  .  But  I  knew  it  from  the  first.  I 
saw  that  you  were  satisfied." 

"  Satisfied !    I'm  anything  but  that." 

"  Oh,  you  may  not  be  happy,  but  you're  satis- 
fied. You  have  no  need  of  anyone.  .  .  .  And 
I  think  it  was  partly  that  that  attracted  me  in 
you — that's  the  irony  of  my  fate!  There's 
nothing  beautiful  about  a  need — unless  one  hap- 
pens to  have  the  response  to  it.  It's  absurd  to 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  339 

be  hungry,  at  my  time  of  life.  Don't  you  find 
me  very  absurd?  " 

"  I  find  you  very — appealing." 

"  Oh,"  he  murmured.  "  It's  hard  to  be  absurd 
twice  over." 

"  Oh,  it's  life  that's  absurd.  There's  such 
horrid  waste  in  it,"  said  Teresa,  almost  angrily. 
"  I  don't  see  why  one  shouldn't  love  where  one 
likes." 

"Because  love's  like  hunger.  When  it's  satis- 
fied you're  not  hungry  any  more,  that's  all. 
Brown  bread  and  cheese  may  satisfy  you — and 
then  it  doesn't  matter  if  Lucullus  asks  you  to 
dinner — I  don't  mean  that  I'm  Lucullus !  .  .  . 
We  can't  bear  loneliness,  any  of  us.  Do  you 
remember  Maupassant's  '  Solitude '?  It's  that 
solitude  that  we're  driven  at  any  cost  to  get  away 
from.  We  can't  stand  too  much  of  ourselves. 
We  must  have  somebody  who  answers  us  ... 
and  most  of  us  never  find  that  person.  But 
you've  found  it." 

"Have  I?  I  don't  know.  I  thought  I  had. 
But  who  really  knows  or  understands  another 
person,  after  all?  " 

"  Not  all  at  once.  But  it  comes.  And  the 
process  of  finding  out  is  interesting." 

"  Not  always  pleasant.  There  are  some  things 
one  would  prefer  not  to  find  out." 

"  What  things,  for  example?  " 

"  Well — other  women." 


340  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"But  there  are  always  other  women.  Man 
isn't  a  monogamous  animal.  How  little  they 
count,  though,  when  there's  the  one !  Don't  you 
know  that,  you  foolish,  adorable  child?  " 

"  They  count  to  the  one,"  said  Teresa,  moodily. 

"  Surely  it's  what  they  count  for  to  the  man 
that  matters." 

"Well,  how  is  one  to  know  how  much  they 
count  for?  Of  course,  he  always  says  it's 
nothing." 

"  And  very  likely  he  tells  the  truth.  But  you 
never  will  understand.  ...  So  you  have 
quarrelled  with  him?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  quarrelled." 

"Foolish  creature!  Why  should  you  care? 
You  must  always  be  the  main  one.,  No  man  could 
ever  get  tired  of  you." 

"  I  don't  care  about  being  the  favourite  in  a 
harem.  I  wish  I  were  like  him." 

"  You  are  foolish.  .  .  .  But  you'll  work  out 
of  it  all  right.  I  wish — look  here,  Teresa,  do  you 
know  what  made  me  half -wild  to-day?  For  I 
was.  .  .  .  I've  had  despatches — there's  trouble 
threatening  out  there,  and  I  shall  have  to  go  back, 
any  moment.  I  wish  I  could  take  you  with  me. 
Not  exactly  where  the  Turks  may  come  down  on 
us  any  minute — but  I'd  like  to  carry  you  off 
where  he'd  never  find  you.  Why  do  you  happen 
to  be  in  love  with  him?  I'd  bolt  the  Turks,  and 
we'd  be  off  to  the  South  Seas  somewhere."  Cray- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  341 

ven  laughed  excitedly,  and  took  her  hand  and 
kissed  it.  "  Never  mind,  I  shall  take  what  I  can 
get!  You  do  like  me,  don't  you?  " 

"  Very  much.  I  should  like  to  run  away  with 
you,  Turks  or  no  Turks." 

"  Keckless  Teresa !  Would  he  mind  your  lik- 
ing me,  even  as  much  as  you  do?  Is  he  jealous?  " 

"  He'd  mind  enormously,  if  he  knew  how  much 
I  like  you.  That's  one  reason  I  like  to  do  it.  I 
shall  tell  him." 

"  You  will?  "  said  Crayven  drily.  "  Then  why 
shouldn't  you  have  more  to  tell?  If  I'm  to  be 
the  instrument  of  chastisement  for  an  erring  hus- 
band, let  me  at  least  be  an  effective  one." 

"  Oh,  if  you're  going  to  be  sarcastic  at  my  ex- 
pense, I  shall  go  home." 

Teresa  sprang  up  and  turned  to  look  at  the 
glacier  and  the  towering  rocks,  among  whose 
peaks  a  few  fleecy  clouds  were  tangled. 

"  I  shall  not  go  back  by  that  tiresome  path," 
she  said.  "  I  want  to  cut  across  there." 

She  pointed  to  a  spur  of  the  hill  up  which  a 
trail  had  been  worn  by  falling  water. 

"  It's  steeper  than  it  looks.  Much  better  stick 
to  the  beaten  path." 

"  I'm  tired  of  the  beaten  path !    Come  along." 

Crayven  rose  slowly  and  followed. 

"  I'll  come  along.  But  I  warn  you,  you  may 
get  into  difficulties.  That's  all  sliding  slate 
above." 


342  T  H  E    B  O  N  D 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  mountaineer !  " 

"  I  am.  That's  why  I  know  that  a  path  is  bet- 
ter than  an  apparently  easy  short-cut — especially 
for  a  woman.  Suppose  you  sprain  your  ankle 
on  that  slate?  I  should  have  to  carry  you  all 
the  way  back  to  Anthemoz.  Do  you  realise  how 
lonely  it  is  here?  There  isn't  a  human  being 
within  two  miles  of  us."  He  came  close  to  her. 
His  eyes  still  burned  with  an  excited  fire. 

"  Don't  be  foolish,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
shall  go  where  you  lead.  I'm  not  your  lord  and 
master." 

"  I  have  none — never  had,"  said  Teresa  firmly. 
"  Come." 

She  hurried  on  to  the  beginning  of  the  sharp 
ascent,  and  began  to  climb,  catching  at  tufts  of 
coarse  grass  to  help  herself  up.  Soon  there  was 
no  more  grass — nothing  but  loose  stones  and 
crumbling  slate.  But  she  went  on,  with  deter- 
mination and  a  sense  of  joy  in  her  recklessness. 
What  had  looked  like  an  easy  ascent  now  towered 
above  her,  straight  up,  a  wall  of  rock  covered 
with  treacherous  debris.  She  turned,  bracing 
herself  carefully,  and  looked  down.  Crayven  was 
just  behind  her.  Over  his  shoulder  she  caught 
a  sudden  glimpse  of  the  abyss  that  seemed  to 
open  below  them — there  seemed  nothing  to  stop 
the  fall — and  the  circle  of  mountain-peaks  swam 
before  her  eyes. 

"  Dizzy?    Want  to  come  down?  "  he  enquired. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  343 

His  smile  irritated  her,  and  she  turned  and 
went  on,  choosing  a  difficult  and  uncertain  foot- 
hold with  each  step.  A  little  further  above,  the 
mild  eminence  which  had  lured  her  on  suddenly 
reared  a  vertical  surface,  as  high  again  as  the 
distance  she  had  climbed.  She  looked,  aghast, 
her  foot  slipped  and  she  went  sliding  down  on  a 
fall  of  loose  slate.  Crayven  caught  her,  but  he, 
too,  slipped  down  a  dozen  feet,  and  they  just 
saved  themselves,  clinging  flat  on  the  treacherous 
surface,  from  a  bad  fall.  They  had  no  alpen- 
stocks, for  the  climb,  except  for  this  deviation  of 
Teresa's,  was  an  easy  one.  Crayven  cautiously 
lifted  himself,  found  a  firm  point  of  rock,  and 
helped  Teresa  to  her  feet. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  and  come  down,"  he  said 
sharply. 

"  Oh,  please,  let  me  do  it  by  myself !  I  can  get 

down — and  I'm  afraid  of  making  you  slip " 

she  said,  rather  frightened. 

"  Give  me  your  hand !  " 

She  obeyed.  The  descent  was  much  more 
difficult  than  the  climb.  Looking  down,  the 
height  was  a  dizzy  one,  and  each  step  had  to  be 
taken  with  slow  care,  Crayven  half-supporting 
her.  Even  so  she  reached  the  bottom  with  her 
dress  stained  with  dirt  and  grass,  her  arms 
stained,  her  hands  scratched  by  the  rough  stones. 
She  sank  down  on  the  ground,  her  head  swim- 
ming. 


344  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"Horrid  little  tiling!"  she  cried.  "Who 
would  have  thought  it  was  such  a  monster  as 
that!  I  was  sure  I  could  do  it  easily." 

"  Next  time  you'll  know  better.  I  was  a  fool 
to  let  you  try  it,"  said  Crayven  grimly.  He  took 
her  drinking-cup  and  brought  some  water  from 
the  stream.  Teresa  drank  and  smiled  at  him 
pensively. 

"Were  we  really  in  danger?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  we  might  have  got  a  very  nasty  fall — 
and  there  wouldn't  have  been  any  first  aid  to  the 
injured." 

"  Well,  why  did  you  let  me  do  it,  then?  You 
said  it  was  dangerous." 

"  That's  right — blame  me.  I  told  you  I  was  a 
fool.  Always  have  been — epecially  where  women 
are  concerned — and  they  know  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Teresa,  confidentially,  "  I  have 
never  known  a  nice  man  who  wasn't." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  adjective.  When  you've 
rested  a  bit  we'd  better  go  down  to  the  chalet 
and  get  some  warm  milk.  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  faint  when  I'd  got  you  down." 

"  Nonsense,  that  would  have  been  too  tactless. 
I  feel  perfectly  all  right,  except  that  my  shoulder 
is  strained  and  I'm  covered  with  bruises  and  my 
hands  are  cut.  I  shouldn't  mind  if  only  I'd  got 
to  the  top.  I  hate  having  to  pay  for  something 
I  haven't  got." 

"  Then    you    shouldn't    want   something   you 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  345 

can't  get,"  said  Crayven,  sombrely.  "  I  am  an 
excellent  person  to  preach  on  that  text." 

As  she  did  not  move  he  sat  down  again  beside 
her. 

"  I  do  not  believe,"  said  Teresa,  "  that  you 
are  as  badly  off  as  you  make  out.  If  you  were 
you  wouldn't  admit  it.  The  real  bankrupts 
never  do." 

"  You  don't  believe  I  care  for  you,  then?  " 

"  As  the  pale  shadow  of  Rosamond,  perhaps ! " 

She  was  punished  for  her  coquetry — for  Cray- 
ven's  rough  and  passoniate  kiss  woke  nothing  but 
repulsion  in  her.  She  sprang  away  from  him  and 
stood  trembling  with  a  desire  to  weep.  She  had 
turned  quite  white.  After  a  moment  she  began 
to  walk  away  from  him  down  the  slope. 

"  Not  that  way,"  he  said  coldly.  "  The  path  is 
here." 

He  went  on  ahead  and  she  turned  and  followed 
him.  Presently  he  stopped  and  waited,  with  his 
back  to  her  and  his  head  bent,  looking  at  the 
ground,  till  she  came  near.  Then  he  faced  her. 

"  You  should  not  play  with  me,"  he  said 
hoarsely. 

"  No,  I  should  not,"  she  said. 

She  passed  him  and  went  on  down  to  the  chalet 
where  shiftless  human  beings,  cattle,  pigs,  and 
chickens  huddled  together  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  majestic  cliffs.  There  Teresa  drank  her 
warm  milk,  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  sun,  while 


346  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Crayven  walked  back  and  forth  behind  her, 
nervously  smoking  one  cigarette  after  another. 
Teresa  felt  suddenly  very  tired,  and  her  strained 
shoulder  ached  furiously.  There  was  a  long  walk 
still  before  them.  But  she  had  quite  got  back 
her  composure,  and  when  she  had  finished  the 
milk  she  was  ready  to  start  at  once. 

"  Won't  you  rest  half  an  hour?  You  must  be 
tired,"  said  Crayven,  with  pleading  eyes. 

"  No,  I'd  rather  20  on."  she  answered  indif- 
ferently. 

They  went  silently  along  the  winding  path 
down  the  hot,  stony  hillside  wThere  grey  herbs 
sent  out  a  sharp  fragrance,  and  into  the  depths  of 
the  pine-forest,  dusky,  cool,  and  sweet.  Teresa, 
still  pale  and  looking  melancholy,  walked  ahead 
in  the  narrow  path,  but  when  it  widened  Crayven 
Walked  beside  her.  At  last  he  said : 

"  Don't  be  too  angry  with  me.  .  .  .  Did  you 
hate  so  to  have  me  touch  you?  " 

"  I'm  not  angry.  ...  I  don't  know — don't 
talk  about  it,"  she  said  impatiently. 

He  uttered  not  a  word  after  that.  About  them 
the  sleepy,  alluring  silence  of  the  forest  stretched 
out,  glade  after  glade,  mossy,  fresh,  untrodden, 
with  a  light  dreamy  motion  in  its  high  crests, 
with  a  soft  murmur  in  its  distances. 


IX 

THAT  evening  Teresa  sat  watching  the  bridge- 
table  in  Nina's  drawing-room.  Ernesto  had 
come  back  from  his  week  in  the  motor,  bland 
and  content  with  himself,  and  full  of  stories 
and  silences  about  Adela  Crayven.  At  present 
he  and  Crayven  were  playing  against  the  bellicose 
.Vicomte,  whose  duel  somehow  had  not  come  off, 
and  his  sister,  and  Ernesto,  as  always,  was  ex- 
citedly absorbed  in  the  game. 

"Contre!"  he  cried,  when  "no  trumps"  had 
been  declared  against  him,  slapping  his  cards 
down  on  the  table  and  folding  his  arms  fren- 
ziedly.  He  played  out  the  hand  fiercely,  pound- 
ing each  trick  with  his  fist  as  he  took  it  in  and 
turned  it;  lost  the  odd;  and  leaned  across  the 
table,  demanding  of  his  partner  with  con- 
centrated fury: 

"  For  God's  sake,  why  didn't  you  lead  me  a 
heart!" 

"  Heart?  Heart?  "  said  Crayven  vaguely.  "  I 
don't  think  I  had  one." 

"  You  had !  Haven't  you  just  played  the  king 
on  my  ace?  You've  lost  us  the  game ! " 

"  Very  sorry,  indeed,"  murmured  Crayven. 

"  Sorry ! "  snorted  Ernesto,  dealing  round  a 
fresh  pack  with  desperation. 

347 


348  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Nina,  crocheting  on  an  endless  piece  of  white 
wool,  glanced  at  him  with  alarmed  sympathy, 
and  Teresa  smiled  faintly.  Ernesto  was  never 
ill-tempered  except  at  cards,  but  his  card-man- 
ners were  atrocious.  Teresa  always  remembered, 
when  she  saw  him  at  play,  the  phrase  of  a  clever 
Italian,  "  Siamo  civili  mas  non  civili"  No, 
decidedly,  Ernesto  was  not  civilised.  The  pas- 
sion to  win  swept  away  all  his  surface  civility. 

Crayven  was  undeniably  an  irritating  partner. 
To-night  he  was  playing  his  worst;  it  was  clear 
that  his  mind  was  anywhere  but  on  the  game. 
Teresa,  from  where  she  sat,  a  little  behind  him, 
glanced  now  and  then  at  his  grave  profile,  the 
weary  droop  of  his  eyelids.  Midway  in  the  last 
game  of  the  rubber  she  got  up  and  said  good- 
night to  Nina.  Ernesto,  studying  his  cards  with 
knitted  brows,  did  not  notice  her  move  till  the 
other  two  men  at  the  table  rose;  then  he  pro- 
tested : 

"  Oh,  don't  go  now !  Wait  a  few  minutes  and 
cut  in,  Teresa,  we're  almost  done — you  take 
Crayven's  place,  or  mine." 

"No,  I'm  tired — I  don't  want  to  play,"  she 
said,  with  a  perverse  pleasure  in  Crayven's  look 
of  suppressed  anger.  She  knew  he  had  come  only 
in  order  to  walk  home  with  her,  but  she  had  not 
meant  that  he  should ;  and  now  she  went  away, 
firmly  refusing  any  escort.  It  was  only  a  few 
steps  to  the  hotel.  But,  in  the  one  lighted  street 


THE     BOND  3  49 

of  the  little  town,  she  turned  the  other  way  and 
walked  slowly,  past  the  lights  of  the  village,  out 
on  the  quiet  road  that  led  down  to  a  bridge  over 
the  brawling  Vieze.  The  night  was  cool,  and  a 
current  of  colder  air,  swept  down  by  the  stream, 
made  her  shiver  slightly  as  she  wrapped  her 
cloak  about  her  and  leaned  to  look  down  at  the 
foaming  water.  She  was  extremely  tired,  but 
nervous  restlessness  and  melancholy  dominated 
her  physical  fatigue.  That  was  the  impression 
the  day  had  left  with  her — a  mordant  melancholy 
— and  she  had  seen  the  same  thing  in  Crayven's 
face  that  evening.  What  had  happened,  after 
all,  and  why  was  it  that  suddenly  all  had  fallen 
to  ruins  in  their  relation  to  one  another?  Why 
was  it  that  at  a  touch  that  world  of  which  he  was 
the  centre,  and  which  had  for  a  moment  beck- 
oned to  her,  had  crumbled  away,  vanished  like 
a  mirage?  It  was  gone,  and  she  felt  desolately 
ennuyee. 

Hard  reality  stared  her  in  the  face — the 
sense  of  her  bondage.  She  was  not  free  for  a 
moment,  she  could  never  love  Crayven  nor  any- 
one else.  Something  far  deeper  than  convention, 
which  she  would  willingly  have  thrown  over- 
board, bound  her,  body  and  soul.  She  liked 
Crayven  thoroughly,  she  felt  affection  for  him, 
and  in  her  rebellion  she  wished  passionately  that 
she  could  care  more  for  him  or  could  be  deceived 
into  thinking  she  cared — but  she  could  not.  All 


»> 

x*\       / 


350  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

that  pleasant,  shimmering  illusion  of  possibility 
was  gone.  He  was  more  sympathetic  to  her  in 
many  ways  than  Basil,  she  even  liked  him  better, 
but  she  had  no  real  emotion  for  him.  Basil  had 
taken  it  all — all !  He  had  taken  her  whole  self, 
her  will,  her  imagination,  her  entire  power  of 
loving.  She  was  drained  of  it  all.  There  was 
nothing  left.  She  was  bound — bound !  And  she 
wept  with  anger  as  she  realised  how  completely 

she  was  delivered  into  his  hands,  how  vain  had 

' 

been  her  pretense  that  she  could  do  without  him, 
could  "  console  "  herself.  He  might  be  unfaith- 
ful, but  she  never  could.  How  strange  was  that 
bond,  deeper  than  the  will,  deeper  than  any 
sympathy  of  mind,  taking  no  account  of  the  many 
things  in  him  that  she  deeply  disliked,  of  the  fact 
that  she  really  disliked  his  character!  It.  was 
infinitely  more  than  a  physical  bond,  it  was  a 
passion  of  the  soul.  How  strange  and  how  ter- 
rible ! 

She  looked  up  at  the  mountain-chain,  black 
as  midnight,  cutting  with  its  jagged  edge  the 
starry  sky;  and  all  its  mass  suddenly  seemed  to 
her  an  illusion,  something  immaterial  that  might 
I  Y  dissolve  away  at  a  breath.  Why  was  she  here  in 
the  midst  of  this  unreality,  this  play-scene  set 
for  a  drama  which  did  not  begin?  She  felt  as 
though  she  were  in  a  dream — one  of  those  fatigu- 
ing nightmares  where  endless  time  passes  in 
preparation  for  something  that  never  happens. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  351 

Longing  caught  at  her  heart — desire  for  the  one 
reality,  even  though  a  wounding  one,  in  this 
world  of  shadow. 

When  she  met  Crayven  next  day  she  was 
sweetly  gentle  to  him.  She  seemed  to  want  to 
show  her  liking  for  him,  to  forget  the  untoward 
incident  at  Anthemoz;  and  Crayven,  at  first  a 
little  bewildered  by  her  kindness,  ended  by  ac- 
cepting it  sadly.  They  went  out  as  usual  after 
tea  into  the  forest.  Teresa  had  never  seen  Cray- 
ven so  intensely  melancholy,  so  almost  childish 
in  his  depression.  He  was  unreasonable  and 
petulant  as  a  child  whom  one  tries  to  console  for 
the  deprivation  of  sweets  to-day  by  the  promise 
of  a  walk  to-morrow.  All  his  strength  and  grip 
of  himself  were  in  abeyance.  He  complained, 
and  Teresa  tried  to  coax  him.  She  offered  to 
write  to  him  when  he  went  away,  which  must 
be,  she  knew,  within  a  few  days. 

"  Oh,  letters,"  he  said  ungraciously.  "  What 
are  they,  when  I  can't  see  you?  " 

"  Oh,  you  will  like  them,"  she  said.  "  Surely 
you  don't  want  me  to  disappear  altogether." 

"  You  will  disappear.  What  does  a  mere 
friendly  liking  count,  after  all?  You'll  forget 
all  about  me  in  three  months.  I  shall  be  only  an 
incident.  I  wish  it  had  never  happened.  I  wish 
I'd  never  seen  you.  I've  been  shaken  up  and 
bothered  for  nothing — just  as  I  was  settling  com- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

fortably  into  middle-ago,  and  not  caring  whether 
anyone  cared  much  for  me  or  not ! — Oh,  well, 
no  fool  like  a  middle-aged  fool.  I  hope  I  shall 
get  knocked  on  the  head  in  this  row,  if  there's 
going  to  be  one — that'll  make  it  all  right." 

"  Don't  be  Byronic.  I  never  thought  you  were 
sentimental." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am.  I  want  to  be.  Bear  with  me 
for  a  little.  ...  I  want  a  photograph  of  you. 
Have  you  got  one?  " 

"  Not  here,  but  I'll  send  you  one." 

This  time  Teresa  was  careful  not  to  say  any- 
thing about  Rosamond.  The  hour  for  coquetry 
was  decidedly  past,  and  the  freedom  of  their 
earlier  talks.  She  was  oppressed  by  Crayven's 
seriousness,  and  a  little  frightened  by  it. 

"  That's  all  I  shall  have  of  you,"  he  said 
moodily.  "  A  photograph — that  won't  give  me 
anything  real  of  you — not  your  beautiful 
colour,  nor  all  that  changing  expression  of  your 
face.  But  don't  forget  that  I  have  cared  a  lot 
about  you — don't  forget.  I'm  a  constant  brute,  a 
faithful  one.  If  you  ever  needed  me — but  that's 
absurd." 

He  flung  away  a  half-smoked  cigarette,  and  be- 
gan tearing  up  the  moss  near  him  with  nervous 
fingers. 

"  You  believe  that,  don't  you?  "  he  went  on 
hurriedly.  "  You  believe  there's  been  something 
real  in  this — that  it's  been  real  to  me?  " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  353 

"  It's  hard  to  believe — it's  so  unreasonable," 
she  said. 

"  That's  just  what  reality  is — unreason.  Who 
can  reason  about  a  thing  of  this  sort?  It  comes 
— nobody  knows  why." 

"  I've  been  so  little  to  you,  after  all — not  so 
much  as  I  might  have  been,  even." 

"  You've  been  yourself.  There's  always  one 
person  that  cares  and  one  that  submits  to  being 
cared  for.  ...  I  wish  I  could  take  care  of 
you " 

It  seemed  foolish  to  mind  his  taking  her  hand 
quietly  and  holding  it;  but  when  she  withdrew 
it  abruptly,  he  looked  rather  pleased  than  other- 
wise. 

"Want  to  soothe  my  wounded  self-esteem?  I 
wish  I  didn't  see  through  it !  You  know  that  one 
doesn't  like  to  be  considered  perfectly  harmless 
— what  a  lot  you  do  know !  " 

Teresa  smiled  vaguely,  looking  into  the  shad- 
ows of  the  forest. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  walk  on?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  it's  better  here.    Stay  a  little  longer." 

He  lit  another  cigarette  and  smoked  silently, 
looking  at  her  now  and  then  with  a  long,  reflect- 
ive gaze.  Teresa  was  silent,  too,  conscious  that 
it  would  be  better  to  talk,  but  unable  to  find  the 
right  words.  And  the  living,  breathing  silence 
of  the  forest,  enveloping  them  softly,  with  golden 
lights,  with  mysterious  shadows,  made  itself  felt, 


354  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

a  lulling,  sensuous  power,  a  mighty  influence,  a 
will.  It  dissolved  all  things  into  dream.  One 
seemed  to  feel  the  world  swinging  through  space, 
wild,  primeval,  obedient  only  to  a  single  law 
which  crushed  the  individual  will  to  dust. 
Danger !  Danger  to  one's  small  individuality,  to 
one's  little  world,  opposing  this  vast,  impersonal, 
indifferent  force! 

The  blood  came  to  Teresa's  face.  At  the  touch 
of  Crayven's  lips  on  her  hand  she  did  not  move, 
but  the  sound  of  his  voice — he  murmured  her 
name — sent  her  to  her  feet  with  a  leap. 

"  Come  away  from  here !  "  she  cried,  pale  and 
laughing  a  little.  "  This  place  is  bewitched ! 
Come  at  once,  or  you  will  turn  into  something 
queer !  I  felt  myself  turning  into  a  tree  as  I  sat 
there — a  birch-tree,  all  white  and  silver — and 
taking  root  by  that  rock !  " 

"Ah,  why  couldn't  you  let  the  dream  come 
true,"  he  said,  his  black  eyes  glowing. 

"  No,  no — no  dreams !  I'm  afraid  of  t^em. 
One  does  such  odd  things  in  dreams — and  if  they 
should  come  true !  And  this  place !  .  .  .  Why, 
here  one  could  murder  one's  grandmother,  or  do 
anything  odd,  and  it  would  seem  perfectly 
natural — only  I  daresay  the  Swiss  police  would 
find  it  out !  " 

She  laughed  again  restlessly,  and  her  eyes, 
blue  as  the  sky,  glanced  about  the  place.  Cray- 
yen  got  up  and  came  close  to  her. 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  355 

"  Well — before  we  go — since  it  is  an  en- 
chanted wood,  kiss  me  once,  will  you? "  His 
voice  trembled,  and  he  caught  his  breath  sud- 
denly. "  I'm — Teresa,  I'm  going  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?  .  .  .  No,  you  can't  be !  You 
don't  mean  it.  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  but  I  do.  I  got  a  despatch  this  morn- 
ing. I  must  go.  So.  .  .  ." 

He  waited,  looking  at  her  with  eyes  that  seemed 
suddenly  tired,  seared. 

"  So,  kiss  me  good-bye,  dear,"  he  said. 

"  To-morrow? "  said  Teresa  confusedly. 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Don't  go.  .  .  ." 

He  was  silent,  waiting — his  face  set  and  sad. 
She  leaned  toward  him,  flushing  suddenly,  her 
eyes  veiling  themselves.  Crayven  took  her  face 
in  his  two  hands,  and  his  gaze  lingered  on  its 
every  line  and  contour,  its  trembling  colour,  the 
tremor  of  the  eyelashes  and  lips.  Then  he 
clasped  her  close  and  kissed  her — a  long  kiss. 

For  him  it  was  the  end.  There  was  a  deep 
tenderness,  a  protecting  gentleness,  in  his  re- 
linquishment,  as  he  set  her  free. 


ONLY  an  incident !  "  He  had  said  that  that 
was  all  he  should  be,  in  her  memory,  and 
that  she  would  forget  him  in  three  months. 

She  knew  that  she  should  never  forget  him. 
That  last  scene  in  the  forest  had  made  it  im- 
possible. 

It  was  not  for  himself  alone,  nor  even  the  fact 
of  his  emotion  for  her.  That  had  left  with  her 
a  tenderness  for  him — but  a  faint,  a  gentle  ten- 
derness. It  was  the  least  emotional  recognition 
she  could  give  of  what  nevertheless  had  touched 
her  heart — that  he  should  really,  genuinely,  care 
anything  for  her,  after  all  her  frank  egotism 
toward  him,  her  absorption  in  herself,  her  crude- 
ness.  .  .  .  That  speech,  for  example,  up  at 
Anthemoz,  about  using  her  relation  with  him  as 
a  spur  to  Basil !  In  spite  of  all  that,  and  of  the 
fact  that  she  could  give  him  nothing  really,  he 
had  liked  her.  She  was  grateful.  And  she  was 
dimly,  passionately  grateful  for  his  bearing 
toward  her  at  that  last  moment.  .  .  . 

There  was  the  reason  why  she  should  never 
forget  him.  He  had  understood.  There,  at  the 
end,  he  had  protected  her. 

And  it  was  like  a  flash  of  light  over  a  new 

356 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  357 

scene — her  knowledge  that  she  had  needed  pro- 
tection. It  was  a  blinding  illumination.  She 
could  not  take  in  at  once  all  it  meant — it  came 
slowly,  as  she  lay  sleepless  at  night,  or  lost  her- 
self in  reverie,  in  the  days  after  Crayven's  going. 

One  thing  appeared  clearly  at  once.  She 
cabled  to  Basil:  "Shall  I  come  home?"  And 
she  began  packing  before  the  answer  came: 
"  Bather !  "  She  laughed  as  she  read  it.  "  What 
a  boy  he  is,  after  all !  "  she  said  aloud. 

A  week  later  she  and  Bonald  were  on  the 
water. 

She  followed  Crayven's  journey  mentally,  step 
by  step — the  steamer  to  Port  Said,  the  plunge 
into  the  desert.  As  she  lay  at  night  on  deck, 
motionless  for  hours  under  her  rugs,  and 
watched  the  rush  of  the  dark  water  into  dark- 
ness, she  thought  of  his  long  ride  through  the 
sands.  She  seemed  to  see  him  wrapped  in  the 
Arab  cloak,  his  face  rather  tired  but  philosophi- 
cally calm,  as  when  she  had  seen  it  first.  He 
was  going  back  to  his  work — to  danger,  perhaps. 
The  incident,  for  him,  was  over. 

It  was  probable  that  she  would  never  see  him 
again.  She  breathed  out  an  intense  wish  for  his 
safety  and  well-being,  into  the  vague  night. 


PART    IV 


BASIL  was  there  on  the  pier,  when,  crippled 
by  a  mid-Atlantic  storm,  the  ship  crept  in, 
a  day  late.  A  haze  of  summer  heat  hung  over 
the  bay  and  the  city ;  a  hot  breath  came  from  the 
land.  In  the  crowd  she  caught  sight  of  him,  a 
head  above  his  neighbours,  his  eyes  eagerly  lifted, 
searching  the  crowded  deck.  He  saw  her,  and 
waved  his  straw  hat.  It  was  a  smart  Panama, 
and  his  light-grey  coat  looked  new.  But  Basil 
was  always  smart.  When  they  met,  with  a  quick 
clasp  of  both  hands,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd, 
Teresa's  glance  devoured  his  face,  noting  its 
slight  pallor,  slight  sallowness  about  the  eyes. 

"  You're  well?  "  she  said  breathlessly. 

"  Oh,  all  right.  But  it's  beastly  hot !  Must 
get  you  and  the  boy  straight  out  of  town " 

Smiling,  he  caught  Ronald  up  and  kissed  him, 
laughing  with  pleasure. 

"  How  you've  grown,  old  man !  Forgotten  me? 
Do  you  know  who  I  am?  " 

"  Papa,"  said  Ronald,  with  his  superior  smile. 

"  Good  for  you — what  a  memory  you've 
got!  .'  .  ." 

He  put  Teresa,  Ronald,  and  the  nurse  into  a 
carriage  and  sent  them  to  a  hotel,  staying  himself 
to  see  the  luggage  through  the  Custom-house.  It 

361 


362  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

was  nearly  seven  o'clock,  and  Eonald  had  been 
put  to  bed,  when  Basil  came.  Teresa  was  lying 
on  her  bed,  her  head  still  whirling  from  the  ef- 
fect of  the  voyage.  Basil  wanted  first  to  see 
Ronald  again.  The  child  was  in  the  next  room, 
not  yet  asleep.  He  went  in,  and  Teresa  heard 
his  voice — pleasant-toned,  fond,  and  joking — and 
heard  Ronald  laugh  sleepily.  At  last  Basil  came 
back,  shutting  the  door,  and  sat  down  beside 
Teresa. 

"  What  a  splendid  fellow  he  is — what  a 
beauty!  "  he  said,  with  a  little  shake  in  his  voice. 
"  I'm  fond  of  that  boy,  Teresa." 

"  Turn  on  the  light — I  want  to  see  you,"  said 
Teresa  lazily. 

Basil  turned  on  the  light  and  took  off  his  coat, 
showing  a  pale-blue  silk  shirt  which  fastened 
neatly  about  his  strong  throat  with  a  blue  tie  and 
a  gold  pin;  then  he  sat  down  again  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed.  Teresa  lay  looking  at  him.  Her 
loose  dark  hair  swept  across  her  forehead  and 
cheek,  and  her  lowered  eyelids  showed  a  narrow 
line  of  blue. 

"  How  hot  you  look,  poor  dear,"  she  said  softly, 
looking  at  his  forehead. 

"  Yes — beastly  weather.  Must  have  a  bath  be- 
fore dinner.  Are  you  too  tired  to  go  out  some- 
where? I'll  find  a  cool  place  to  eat." 

"  Tired — no.  Only  my  head's  queer  yet.  We 
had  a  rough  voyage." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  303 

"  I  know — odd  at  this  time  of  year." 

She  touched  his  sleeve  caressingly. 

"What  a  nice  rig!  Blue's  your  colour — mine 
too,  oddly.  Red  suits  Ronald  best.  He's  looking 
well,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Like  a  fighting-cock !  You've  taken  good  care 
of  him.  And  you  .  .  .  you're  looking  very 


"  You  haven't  said  you're  glad  to  see  us 
back." 

"  And  you    .    .    .  are  you  glad    .     .    .     ? " 

"If  I'm  glad!" 

Basil  bent  to  look  into  her  eyes,  gathered  her 
up  in  her  loose  white  dress,  and  her  arms  went 
round  him  in  a  clasp  that  seemed  as  if  it  could 
never  loosen.  They  held  one  another,  silent,  for 
long,  long  moments,  and  to  Teresa  all  bitterness, 
all  chance  of  misunderstanding,  seemed  to  ebb 
away  out  of  consciousness.  Just  to  have  him 
there,  in  her  arms,  was  like  bread  to  a  gnawing 
hunger,  like  water  to  a  biting  thirst. 

They  dined  together  at  one  of  their  old  haunts, 
on  a  balcony  overlooking  a  broad  street.  It  was 
not  a  fashionable  quarter.  The  restaurant  and 
the  street  were  full  of  foreign  bourgeois  people, 
less  noisy  because  of  the  heat.  Low  thunder- 
clouds hung  over  the  city;  it  seemed  to  gasp  for 
breath.  Teresa  wore  the  white  dress  and  hat 
which  she  had  put  into  her  steamer-trunk  with 


364  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

an  idea  of  this  occasion.  Basil  studied  her  face 
with  keen  attention. 

"You  look  younger — you  look  awfully  strong 
and  well — it  has  done  you  a  lot  of  good.  It's  too 
bad  to  pull  you  back  into  this  heat — we  must  get 
out  of  town  to-morrow.  You  haven't  told  me 
what  made  you  decide  so  suddenly  to  come  back," 
he  said  abruptly. 

"  Because  I  wanted  to — I  was  bored  there. 
Are  you  put  out  with  me  for  coming  so  soon?  " 

"Am  I?  Did  I  want  you  to  go?  Did  I, 
Teresa?  " 

"  No.  But  you  might  have  got  used  to  my 
being  away.  You  look  at  me  as  though  I'd  been 
gone  a  year." 

"And  it  seems  to  me  you  have.  You  seem 
strange  to  me,  Teresa." 

"  That's  it !  That's  the  very  way  you  look  at 
me — as  though  I  were  a  stranger!  You'd  for- 
gotten me." 

"  Forgotten  you ! " 

"  Yes,  you  were  forgetting  me — if  I'd  stayed 
a  few  months  longer,  you'd  have  forgotten  how 
I  look !  It's  true — you  said  so  yourself." 

"  I  didn't.  I  said  you  seem  strange,  and  you 
do.  It's  as  though  you  were  a  person  that  I 
must  begin  to  know  all  over  again.  Don't  you 
like  that?  Would  you  rather  have  me  feel  that 
I  know  you  like  a  book,  like  an  old  hat?  Drink 
some  of  that  white  wine." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  3G5 

"  You  were  forgetting  me,"  murmured  Teresa, 
as  she  took  up  her  glass.  "  Confess  that  you're 
surprised  to  find  how  nice  I  really  am.  Had  you 
forgotten  that  I'm  pretty?  Could  you  tell  the 
colour  of  my  eyes?  You've  got  no  memory,  Basil, 
and  therefore  no  soul.  All  you  have  is  a  habit." 
She  smiled  at  him.  "  You've  a  habit  of  me,  or  a 
habit  of  getting  on  without  me.  Oh,  7  see  that  you 
could  get  on  without  me,  and  I  shall  never  give 
you  the  chance  again !  " 

"  Will  you  swear  to  that?  " 

"  By  sun  and  moon  I  swear ! " 

"  Well,  I'm  content  then.  I  get  on  damn  badly 
without  you,  that's  the  truth." 

"  But  you  get  on.  And  I  can't  get  on  at  all 
without  you — not  at  all.  I've  found  that  out." 

"  Then  I'm  glad  you  went  awray,  if  that's  true." 

"  Yes,  only  I  knew  it  before." 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  drank  a  silent 
toast.  To  Teresa  the  world  about  her — the  sti- 
fling night,  the  breathless  air,  the  crowd  of  or- 
dinary people — had  taken  on  the  colour  and  glow 
of  the  wine,  a  mysterious  radiance.  She  was 
eating  very  little,  but  the  food  seemed  good.  The 
waiter  in  his  musty  black  coat,  with  a  tired  nap- 
kin over  his  arm,  seemed  a  pathetic  and  amiable 
human  creature.  She  glanced  at  his  grave  face, 
as  he  awaited  the  order  for  the  entree,  with  sym- 
pathy. How  dreary  he  must  be  of  people  choosing 
their  entree!  But  no — he  was  pleased  to  suggest 


366  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

that  one  of  those  queerly-named  dishes  was  bet- 
ter than  the  other — he  looked  interested.  How 
amiable ! 

She  smiled  joyously  at  Basil.  "  And  now  tell 
me  what  you've  been  doing  with  your  unchar- 
tered  freedom — confess  how  you've  enjoyed  being 
a  bachelor ! " 

"  You  can't  be  a  bachelor  when  you've  been 
married,"  said  Basil  with  conviction.  "  It's  liv- 
ing at  table  d'hbtes  when  you've  had  your  own 
house — it  ain't  the  cheese.  I  hate  bumming 
round." 

And  he  looked  at  her  with  deep  content  in  his 
eyes. 

"  We'll  get  a  little  place  in  the  country  some- 
where for  the  autumn,  and  I  shall  sit  down  and 
do  some  work.  I  haven't  done  anything  decent 
since  you  went  away." 

"  What  have  you  done,  then,  you  fraud?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wrote  you — those  beastly  illustrations 
— and  another  thing  or  two.  But  it's  been  hot, 
and  every  day  or  so  I  had  to  pick  up  and  go  out 
of  town.  I  couldn't  settle  down  to  anything.  I 
want  my  own  place — and  you  in  it." 

"  But,  dear  boy,  you  don't  like  my  house- 
keeping ! " 

"  Bother  housekeeping !   You  do  it  as  well  as 
you  can,  that's  all.     I  don't  care  much  what  I- 
eat." 

"  Poor,  dear  Basil !    But  I  will  do  it  better  this 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  3G7 

time — I  really  will.  I  want  a  settled  place  too, 
a  place  where  we  belong.  I'm  so  tired,  as  you 
say,  of  bumming.  I  thought  when  I  came  home 
this  time  that  I  never  wanted  to  see  Europe  again. 
It's  the  fourteenth  time  I've  crossed  that  stupid 
ocean — and  oh,  I  thought  of  all  the  years  of  wan- 
dering when  I  was  a  child,  and  how  we  never 
had  a  home.  And  I'm  sick  of  it.  And  you  and 
I,  Basil,  have  never  had  a  place  of  our  own. 
We've  lived  like  two  sparrows,  building  our  nest 
under  somebody  else's  eaves.  And  I  want  my 
own  eaves!  I  want  a  house  somewhere,  I  don't 
care  if  it's  in  a  beastly  suburb,  or  where — and  a 
garden,  and  about  ten  acres  of  trees,  and  an 
asparagus-bed,  and  a  cow !  " 

Basil  laughed. 

"  We'll  have  it,  then — by  Jove,  that  would 
suit  me!  But  where  shall  we  get  the  money?  " 

"  Why,  we  have  thirty-five  hundred  a  year, 
haven't  we?  We  could  pay  for  it  in  three  or  four 
years." 

"  Yes,  but  what  should  we  live  on,  then?  " 

Teresa  looked  slightly  dashed. 

"  Oh,  wre'll  make  enough  to  live  on,"  she  said, 
recovering  herself.  "  I  can  make  a  good  deal  if 
I  try — and  I  won't  have  any  new  clothes,  and  I'll 
buy  all  our  food  at  the  cheapest  shops.  I'm  sure 
we  can  do  it." 

"  Very  well,  we'll  do  it.  I'll  do  anything  you 
really  want,  Teresa." 


368  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Will  you?  "  she  murmured. 

She  drank  her  wine  absently  and  set  the  glass 
down,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  strange,  pas- 
sionate expression  of  doubt. 

"  Who  knows?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Basil. 

"  Who  knows  what  you  would  do  for  me?  Who 
knows  what  I  am  to  you?  " 

"  /  know,  pretty  well,  I  should  think.  Try  me. 
I  don't  think  there's  much  I  wouldn't  do  for 
you." 

"  Would  you " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  made  an  impatient  ges- 
ture, and  said,  "  No — that's  nothing.  I  won't  say 
that." 

"  Won't  say  what?  What  is  it?  Say  what  you 
had  in  your  mind." 

She  refused,  but  Basil  pressed  her  eagerly.  For 
some  ten  minutes  she  resisted,  but  at  last  she 
said: 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you,  then.  All  that  came  into 
my  mind — that  thing  about — Mrs.  Perry."  The 
name  cost  her  a  slight  effort.  "  And  I  started  to 
ask  if  you  would  tell  me  now  all  about  it.  But 
I  don't  really  care — that's  why  I  stopped.  It 
would  make  it  seem  too  important  to  me.  I  don't 
care  what  happened — only  tell  me  this,  you  didn't 
care  about  her?  " 

"  I  have  told  you — not  an  atom." 

"  Then  she  was  a  fool." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  3G9 

"  I  suppose  she  was." 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  all — keep  the  rest  to  your- 
self. As  I  should  do,  in  a  similar  case." 

"  As  you  would?  How  do  you  mean,  Teresa— 
in  my  place,  you  mean?  " 

"  No,  I  mean  in  my  place." 

With  her  elbows  leaning  on  the  table  and  her 
chin  in  her  palms,  she  smiled  at  him  slightly. 
Basil  studied  her  delicate,  subtle  face.  It  struck 
him  suddenly  that  there  was  a  new  force  about  it. 
It  might  only  the  poise  of  recovered  health  and 
energy — but  it  seemed  more.  She  looked  some- 
how surer,  more  experienced,  with  more  reserve. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  malice  in  her  look.  He 
considered  her  profoundly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  you  little  devil," 
he  said  caressingly,  "  but  I  know  you're  more 
charming  than  ever.  It's  about  time  you  came 
back." 

"  Yes,  said  Teresa  softly.  "  It  was  time — if 
I  meant  to  come  back.  And,  on  the  whole,  I  did." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  There's  something  in 
your  mind — there's  something  you  haven't  told 
me." 

"  Is  there?    Is  it  possible?  " 

"  Now  come,  Teresa !  Don't  grill  a  fellow,  and 
on  a  night  like  this — and  the  first  minute  you  get 
back,  too!  You  don't  hate  me,  do  you?  I'm  so 
confoundedly  happy  to  get  you  back — I've  never 
been  so  happy  in  my  life." 


370  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Basil's  voice  quavered,  and  he  seized  her  hand 
across  the  table. 

Teresa  looked  at  him  strangely,  and  was  silent. 
She  smiled  as  he  filled  her  glass  again  with  the 
topaz-coloured  wine,  and  gazed  out  dreamily  over 
the  street.  The  black  night,  mysterious  and 
ominous,  with  the  roll  of  thunder  coming  nearer, 
seemed  now  to  have  left  only  a  core  of  radiance 
about  them.  The  low  clouds,  the  flaring  light- 
ning, all  threats,  all  uncertainties,  pressed  in 
upon  the  sensuous  dream,  and  seemed  to  concen- 
trate it  into  an  infinite  moment,  inexpressibly 
sweet. 


II 

THEY  found  a  house  on  Long  Island,  and 
Teresa  took  a  perverse  pleasure  in  the  fact 
that  it  was  within  an  easy  distance  of  Mrs. 
Perry's  big  country-place.  Basil  had  objected  to 
this  neighbourhood,  but  had  been  overruled.  The 
house  was  exactly  what  they  wanted — an  old 
farmstead,  which  had  been  made  habitable  by  a 
painter  of  their  acquaintance.  It  had  a  big 
studio,  a  straggling  old-fashion  garden,  and  an 
orchard  where  Konald  could  play.  There  were 
glimpses  of  the  sea.  They  put  in  some  of  their 
furniture,  which  had  been  stored,  and  Teresa  an- 
nounced that  they  were  settled  till  December,  by 
which  time  they  might  perhaps  have  found  their 
permanent  home.  This,  she  said,  must  be  in  some 
place  not  infested  by  the  rich;  where,  therefore, 
land  needn't  be  bought  by  the  square  inch. 

Meantime  she  devoted  herself  with  great  energy 
to  the  task  of  making  their  temporary  abode  com- 
fortable. She  became  an  active  housewife,  and 
sang  gaily  as  she  went  about  with  her  sleeves 
rolled  up,  ordering  the  place.  Basil  had  settled 
himself  promptly  into  the  studio,  where  he  wel- 
comed interruption.  He  announced  that  he  was 
hard  at  work,  but  when  Teresa  passed  the  door 
or  Eonald  looked  in  at  the  window,  he  seized 

371 


372  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

upon  their  society,  and  would  come  out  to  lounge 
about  the  house  or  the  garden,  smoking  and 
cheerfully  inspecting  their  activities.  His  tune- 
less whistle  was  frequently  heard.  He  was  very 
happy.  Teresa  too  had  recovered  her  old  gaiety. 
The  clouds  of  the  past  year  seemed  all  to  have 
disappeared. 

Basil  left  all  practical  arrangements  com- 
pletely in  Teresa's  hands.  She  was  to  choose  their 
home,  and  everything  was  to  be  exactly  as  she 
wished.  He  applauded  the  meals  that  she  caused 
to  be  set  before  him,  made  light  of  any  drawbacks, 
and  proclaimed  that  he  had  never  in  his  life  been 
so  comfortable.  He  was  disinclined  to  stir  from 
their  domestic  precincts  even  for  half  a  day,  and 
neither  of  them  wanted  to  see  any  people.  He 
took  Ronald  down  to  the  beach  every  day,  and 
taught  him  to  swim.  He  wanted  Teresa  always 
within  sight  or  hearing.  He  wanted,  he  said,  to 
wallow  in  unbridled  domesticity. 

One  morning  Teresa,  idly  looking  over  the 
newspaper  as  she  sat  in  a  hammock,  with  Ronald, 
scantily  clad,  making  mud-pies  near  by,  saw  on 
the  first  page  an  article,  under  portentous  head- 
lines, on  the  threatened  war  between  England 
and  Turkey.  Turkey  had  marched  troops  into 
the  Sinai  Peninsula,  on  the  pretext  that  it  was 
not  a  part  of  Egpyt.  England  had  let  it  be  un- 
derstood that  if  the  Turkish  forces  were  not  with- 
drawn she  would  bombard  Constantinople.  This 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  373 

was  the  gist  of  the  despatches,  eked  out  by  com- 
ment and  prophecy  from  various  sources  to  make 
a  startling  column  and  a  half. 

Teresa  read  the  article  several  times.  It  had 
come,  then,  the  "  trouble  "  that  Crayven  had  fore- 
seen, and  that  had  called  him  back  to  his  post. 
And  what  had  come  to  him  there,  in  his  old  fort 
in  the  desert,  with  his  handful  of  soldiers?  An 
emergency  like  this,  she  knew,  had  been  always 
before  him.  Half  civilian,  half  soldier,  he  was 
one  of  those  many  Englishmen  on  the  outposts 
of  the  Empire,  living  and  working  obscurely,  per- 
haps fighting  and  dying  obscurely — it  was  all, 
as  he  had  said,  in  the  day's  work. 

She  dropped  the  newspaper  and  lay  back, 
thinking  of  him. 

She  was  sure  that  he  would  meet  his  emergency 
well,  with  the  quiet  courage  that  gives  a  touch 
of  the  heroic  to  even  the  simplest  human  figure. 
He  was  steady  of  nerve  and  strong  of  will.  He 
would  be  calm  under  fire,  he  would  make  the  most 
of  his  resources.  He  would  assuredly  not  give 
way.  If  there  were  any  dispute  about  that  old 
powder-magazine  and  that  well — the  only  water 
to  be  had  within  three  days'  journey — she  could 
quite  see  him  declining  to  give  it  up  to  a  Turkish 
army  camped  about  him.  He  was  the  sort  of  man 
who  would  shut  his  eyes  naturally  to  the  odds 
against  him — and  even,  out  of  pure  obstinacy 
perhaps,  put  a  match  to  the  powder-magazine. 


374  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

Ronald  came  up  to  her,  to  exhibit  a  particu- 
larly fine  pie,  and  she  said  to  him : 

"  Do  you  remember  the  man — that  gave  you 
your  stick,  you  know?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Ronald  thoughtfully.  "Is  he 
here?  " 

"  No — he's  far  away,  across  the  big  ocean  and 
the  desert.  And  he's  in  a  fort,  with  cannon,  and 
there  are  a  lot  of  soldiers  who  want  to  shoot  him 
and  take  the  fort." 

Eonald  brought  his  two  bare  heels  together  and 
his  hand  to  his  forehead,  in  the  military  salute 
that  Crayven  had  taught  him. 

"  Salute,  sir !  "  he  said.  "  If  he  has  cannons, 
why  doesn't  he  shoot  the  soldiers?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  will,  but  there  are  such  a  lot  of 
them." 

Ronald  looked  very  solemn,  and  dug  his  thumb 
into  the  mud-pie,  destroying  its  symmetry. 

"  How  many  are  there? "  he  asked  after  a 
pause. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — thousands,  perhaps — 
heaps  of  them." 

"Will  he  fight  with  a  sword,  like  granpa,  or 
will  he  shoot  their  heads  off  with  the  cannons?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  dearest.  Go  and  make  another 
pie,  will  you?  That  one's  quite  spoilt." 

"  No,  make  me  a  fort,  with  cannons." 

"  No,  I  can't  now,  dearest,  I'm  going  to  write 
a  letter." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  375 

She  went  into  the  house,  meaning  to  write  to 
Crayven.  But  Basil  called  her  into  the  studio  to 
show  her  a  drawing  he  had  just  finished,  and 
presently  it  was  lunch-time.  The  letter  was  not 
written  that  day,  nor  the  next.  After  all,  why 
write  to  him?  He  had  said  that  he  didn't  want 
letters. 

But  within  the  week  there  came  a  letter  to  her 
from  Crayven.  It  had  been  sent  to  Switzerland, 
and  forwarded  by  Nina.  As  it  happened,  Teresa 
was  out  when  the  rural  postman  brought  that 
day's  mail ;  and  Basil,  according  to  his  frank  cus- 
tom, opened  and  read  the  letter.  When  Teresa 
came  back  from  her  walk  with  Eonald,  Basil  gave 
it  to  her,  with  a  number  of  others,  without  com- 
ment, She  sat  down  on  the  step  and  began  to 
look  them  over.  Basil,  smoking  rather  nervously, 
was  walking  up  and  down  the  verandah.  When 
she  came  to  Crayven's  letter  and  looked  at  the 
signature,  she  changed  colour  slightly  and 
glanced  up  at  Basil.  He  met  her  glance  sombrely. 
She  read  the  letter,  which  had  been  written  a  day 
or  so  after  Crayven's  arrival  at  his  post,  and 
which  was  rather  too  expressive.  Then  she  folded 
it  up  carefully  and  glanced  up  again  at  Basil. 

"  I  wish  ^ou  would  not  open  my  letters,"  she 
said  calmly. 

"  I  daresay.  I  won't  in  future.  I  didn't  know 
it  was  a  love-letter.  Perhaps  you'll  tell  me,  if 
you  don't  mind,  who  the  devil  is  i  Athelstan  '  ?  " 


376  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Oh,  a  man  you  know — Crayven,  that  Eng- 
lishman, you  remember." 

"  And  how  does  he  happen  to  write  to  you  like 
that?  Where  have  you  seen  him?  " 

"  He  was  in  the  Val  d'lliez  this  summer." 

"  You  never  mentioned  him  to  me." 

"No." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"  I  didn't  choose  to." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  about  this  now?  " 

Teresa  was  silent,  looking  away  through  the 
slanting  shadows  of  the  orchard.  Basil  wras  look- 
ing at  her,  quite  pale.  She  shook  her  head 
finally. 

"  Not  on  demand.  You've  no  right  to  demand 
it.  I  shall  tell  you  if  I  choose,  when  I  choose." 

"  Very  well,  Teresa.  I  don't  know  what  you've 
done,  I  don't  know  whether  you  know  what  you're 
doing  now — I  don't  understand  the  thing.  Do 
as  you  like,  of  course,  about  telling  me." 

He  went  into  the  house,  and  Teresa  sat  still, 
in  one  position,  till  tea  was  brought  out,  when  she 
V  got  up,  her  whole  body  ach-ing  from  constraint. 
Basil  sent  out  word  that  he  didn't  want  any  tea 
J,  and  that  he  was  going  to  town  for  dinner.  Kon- 
ald  ran  up  for  his  bit  of  cake;  and  when  Basil, 
with  a  curt  "  Good-bye,"  departed,  trotted  down 
to  the  gate  with  him.  Basil  called  over  his 
shoulder : 

"  I  may  not  be  back  to-night." 


T  H  E    B  O  N  D  377 

Teresa  made  no  answer,  but  smiled  faintly  and 
scornfully. 

It  took  no  more  than  this,  then,  to  break  up  the 
peace  of  their  reunion!  How  absurd,  to  quarrel 
about  Crayven !  She  was  angry  at  Basil's  ready 
distrust  of  her.  The  letter  was  over-expressive, 
but— 

She  read  'it  again.  Yes,  it  was  a  love-letter, 
but  a  melancholy  one.  It  was  by  no  means  the 
letter  of  a  happy  or  triumphant  lover.  It  was  not 
very  long:  and  at  the  end  Crayven  said  that  his 
district  had  already  been  invaded,  and  that  a 
force  of  three  thousand  Turks  were  camped  at 
two  days'  journey  from  him. 

"  I  may  not  write  again,"  he  ended.  "  But  if 
I  get  out  of  this  I  will,  just  to  let  you  know.  Of 
course  it's  a  chance  whether  this  letter  gets 
through — but  if  it  does  you'll  know  why  I  wrote 
it.  I  can't  help  it — I  can't  go  out  without  a  word 
to  you.  I  was  a  fool  to  say  I  didn't  want  letters 
— I  do  want  them.  But  don't  bother  about  me. 
Write  if  you  like.  But  if  anything  happens  to  me 
— there's  only  one  chance  out  of  many  that  it 
will — don't  let  it  trouble  you.  It  doesn't  matter 
very  much  to  me,  you  know." 

She  sat  down  and  wrote  to  him,  and  then 
walked  to  the  post-office  to  mail  her  letter,  taking 
Konald  with  her.  A  way  of  getting  news  of  him 
had  occurred  to  her.  She  sent  a  cablegram  to  a 
friend  of  hers  in  London,  asking  him  to  find  out 


378  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

for  her  Crayven's  situation.  She  also  bought  an 
evening  paper,  but  there  was  nothing  in  that  ex- 
cept scarehead  prophecies  of  the  despatch  of  an 
English  fleet  to  Constantinople.  She  threw  the 
paper  away  and  went  slowly  home  along  the  quiet 
country  road.  A  fresh  wind  was  blowing  from 
the  sea.  The  September  heats  were  coming  to 
an  end.  The  first  hint  of  autumn  was  in  the  air. 

So  far,  since  she  had  read  Crayven's  letter,  she 
had  been  thinking  only  of  him.  It  was  not  at  all 
like  him,  she  thought,  to  alarm  her  for  nothing. 
He  must  have  believed  himself  in  danger,  and,  as 
he  was  not  a  timorous  nor  an  hysterical  person, 
the  danger  must  be  real.  She  was  touched  that 
he  should  have  thought  of  her  and  have  wished 
to  send  her  that  message,  which  might  be  the  last. 
After  all,  it  had  been  a  genuine  feeling  that  he 
had  had  for  her;  she  had  been  sure  of  it  ever 
since  that  last  day  in  the  Swiss  forest.  And  she 
felt  affection  for  him,  and  a  longing  to  know  that 
he  was  safe. 

She  regretted  nothing  about  the  affair;  not 
even  the  fact  that  his  letter  had  made  trouble  for 
her  with  Basil.  She  did  not  regret  her  silence 
to  Basil,  nor  that  he  now  knew  that  she  had  con- 
cealed something  from  him.  Of  course  he  would 
be  angry.  He  had  believed  always  that  she  had 
no  secrets  from  him;  and  in  fact,  till  this,  she 
had  had  none.  It  was  Basil's  doing,  that  she  had 
kept  this  from  him.  If  he  had  his  secrets,  she 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  379 

also  bad  a  right  to  hers.  She  had  not  deliberately 
resolved  to  practise  any  deception  upon  him ;  she 
had  not  deliberately  engaged  in  a  relation  which 
she  knew  he  would  resent.  She  had  been  led  into 
it  instinctively  by  her  feeling  of  partial  estrange- 
ment from  him,  and  for  this  he  was  responsible. 
He  had  made  her  feel  that,  after  all,  she  was 
separate  from  him;  he  was  one  person  and  she 
was  another.  They  loved  one  another,  but  each, 
after  all,  had  a  life  outside  that  love.  Basil  had 
not  sacrificed  to  her  his  caprice  for  Mrs.  Perry, 
nor  his  loyalty  to  the  consequences  of  that  ca- 
price. He  had  no  right  then  to  demand  an 
account  from  her.  He  had  taken  the  wrong  tone. 
He  had  gone  off  in  a  rage.  No  doubt  he  could 
not  help  that — he  had  been  taken  by  surprise  and 
deeply  disturbed.  He  would  come  back,  perhaps, 
more  reasonable — and  then  she  might,  or  might 
not,  explain.  Meantime,  she  was  not  sorry  that 
he  was  disturbed.  It  would  not  hurt  Basil  to 
suffer  a  little.  He  had  made  her  suffer.  And 
with  her  return  she  had  forgiven  him,  she  had 
given  herself  to  him  again  completely,  without 
the  shadow  of  a  reproach ;  less  joyously  than  be- 
fore, but  more  seriously,  more  passionately.  She 
had  loved  him  more  because  she  had — from  his 
point  of  view — offended  against  him,  and  because 
the  account  was  balanced.  She  did  not  feel  in  the 
least  sinful  because  of  this,  but  she  knew  that  he 
would  think  her  so.  This  consciousness  gave  her 


380  T  H  E    B  O  N  D 

an  additional  tenderness  for  him,  and  it  freed 
her  absolutely  from  her  resentment  of  the  affair 
with  Isabel.  It  had  enabled  her  to  forgive  Basil, 
and  to  put  the  thing  entirely  out  of  her  mind. 

Well,  and  now?  She  did  not  quite  know  what 
would  happen  now,  but  for  the  moment  she  was 
indifferent.  Basil  must  come  back  sometime,  and 
then  they  would  see. 

She  dined  alone ;  and  afterward  walked  by  the 
light  of  a  half  moon  down  to  the  sea.  This  wras 
the  side  of  the  island  which  faced  the  open  ocean, 
and  great  breakers  rolled  in  to  fling  themselves 
on  the  shore.  The  wind  was  still  rising.  It  blew 
her  hair  about  as  she  sat  on  the  sand,  and 
whipped  it  into  strings  over  her  forehead,  and 
left  on  her  lips  the  salt  taste  of  the  sea.  She  sat 
there  till  the  moon  was  near  setting,  feeling  with 
deep  pleasure  the  tumult  of  the  night,  and,  with 
something  that  was  not  pain,  the  tumult,  the  ex- 
citing uncertainty  of  life. 


Ill 

BASIL  returned  by  the  last  train  that  night. 
Next  morning  he  breakfasted  in  his  room, 
and  Teresa  did  not  see  him  till  near  noon,  when 
she  went  into  the  studio  to  get  a  half-finished 
clay  model.  They  usually  worked  side  by  side 
some  hours  of  the  morning,  but  now  Teresa  gath- 
ered up  her  materials,  with  a  cool  "  Good-morn- 
ing," and  went  out  again.  Basil  did  not  answer, 
but  looked  up  from  his  drawing-board  with  a 
haggard,  sombre  glance.  She  noticed  that  the 
sheet  of  paper  before  him  was  entirely  blank. 

Luncheon  came  and  went  in  perfect  silence, 
except  for  Teresa's  conversation  with  Eonald, 
who  had  lately  been  promoted  to  take  his  dinner 
at  the  family  board.  After  luncheon  Teresa  put 
Konald  to  bed,  and  went  into  the  studio.  There 
was  the  blank  sheet  of  paper,  over  which  Basil 
had  spent  the  morning.  From  the  window  she 
could  see  him  walking  up  and  down  in  the  gar- 
den, and  she  saw  the  well-known  nervous  motion 
of  his  hands  as  he  threw  away  a  half-smoked 
cigarette,  lit  another,  and  presently  threw  that 
away  too.  The  day  was  cool  and  clouding  over. 
She  lit  the  fire  ready-laid  in  the  big  grate,  and 
moved  about  the  room,  putting  it  in  order,  and 
clearing  away  the  litter  of  pipes  and  cigarette- 

381 


382  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

ends  and  burnt  matches  which  Basil  had  left. 
Then  she  looked  out  at  him  again,  irresolute. 
Basil  was  capable,  she  knew,  of  sulking  for  a 
week  straight  on.  It  was  not  now  as  it  had  been 
in  the  first  years  of  their  marriage,  when  any  con- 
straint between  them  was  more  pain  to  him  than 
to  herself,  when  he  was  always  the  first  to  insist 
on  an  understanding.  But — this  was  not  an  or- 
dinary case  of  sulking.  At  luncheon  he  had  eaten 
almost  nothing  and  his  eyes  looked  as  though  he 
had  not  slept.  He  was  suffering. 

After  a  little,  she  put  a  white  scarf  over  her 
head  and  shoulders  and  went  out  to  him.  He 
looked  at  her  with  that  same  sombre  expression, 
and  when  she  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm 
he  drew  away. 

"  Basil,  aren't  you  making  too  much  of  this?  " 
she  asked,  walking  on  beside  him. 

"  No,"  he  said  curtly. 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  are  putting  on  tragedy- 
airs  without  much  reason." 

"  Does  it?  " 

"  You  are  trying  to  bully  me."  , 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  I'm  not.  You  can  do  as  you  damn  please. 
Apparently  you  have  done  so.  Only  if  you  think 
it's  going  to  make  no  difference " 

"  What  difference?  " 

"  Just  this — that  we  won't  live  together  any 
more." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  383 

"Basil!     .     .     ." 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it.    I  shall  go  away." 

"  How  absurd  you  are !  " 

"  Perhaps  so — but  if  you  think  I  could  endure 

to  live  like  this You  simply  don't  realise 

what  you've  done.  You  seem  to  think  it's 
nothing !  " 

"  I'm  not  aware  that  I've  done  anything  so 
frightfully  serious." 

"  No?  Well,  you've  shaken  my  whole  idea  of 
you,  my  belief  in  you — that's  all.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  me  not  to  trust  you.  It  never  occurred 

to  me But  now — I  wonder  if  you've  lied  to 

me  all  along." 

"  I've  never  lied  to  you — never." 

"  How  can  I  know?  How  do  I  know  what  you 
are?  I  don't  know  you  at  all.  I  call  that  lying 
— to  come  back  to  me  with  a  secret  like  that,  I 
should  never  have  known,  except  by  accident, 
that  you  had  had  a  lover." 

"A  lover?    No." 

"  Yes!  A  man  doesn't  write  that  sort  of  letter 

unless And  a  man  that  you  barely  knew — a 

stranger — My  God,  Teresa,  what  has  come  to 
you?  " 

He  stopped  short,  clenching  his  fists,  deathly 
pale,  the  muscles  about  his  mouth  twitching  vio- 
lently. 

(i  And  you  refuse  to  tell  me " 

"  I  haven't  refused.    I  said  you  had  no  right  to 


384  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

demand  that  I  should  tell  you.  You  have  your 
secrets1 — why  shouldn't  I  have  mine?  " 

"  How  you  talk !  "  he  burst  out.  "  Like  the  sil- 
liest, shallowest  sort  of  a  new  woman !  '  Eights' ! 
It  isn't  a  question  of  rights — it's  a  question  of 
necessity.  Some  things  can  be  and  others  can't. 
Secrets!  I've  never  had  a  secret  from  you  that 
counted  for  anything.  And  you  can't  have  this 
sort  of  a  secret  from  me.  You  can't,  if  we're  to  go 
on  at  all.  Understand?  " 

"  Don't  bully,  Basil." 

"  Bully !  ...  By  the  Lord,  you  shall  tell  me !  " 

He  turned  like  a  flash  and  his  two  hands, 
trembling,  closed  tight  round  her  throat, 

"  Basil  .  .  ."  she  murmured,  looking  at  him 
with  half-shut  eyes,  almost  smiling. 

With  as  abrupt  a  movement  he  released  her, 
flung  himself  down  on  the  bench  under  the  apple- 
tree  and  hid  his  face  on  his  arms.  Teresa  stood 
still  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Basil  ...  I  can't  understand  why  you 
behave  in  this  way.  You  don't  trust  me,  then, 
at  all,  really?  There  was  nothing  in  that  letter 
to  cause  all  this." 

He  was  silent. 

"  I've  never  loved  anyone  but  you." 

"  All  the  worse ! "  He  lifted  his  head  and 
looked  at  her.  "  What  was  it,  then,  that  made  you 
do  this?  Vanity?  I  could  forgive  you  if  you 
loved  someone  else,  but  this  ...  !  " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  385 

"  Vanity?  Perhaps,  and  perhaps  you  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it,  Basil." 

"  I  had?  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  You  know  well  enough.  You  know  what  hap- 
pened before  I  went  away.  You  know  how  I  felt 
about  it — or  perhaps  you  don't  know." 

"  What  idiocy !  "  said  Basil  savagely.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  because  of  that  ...  I  don't 
believe  you." 

"  I'm  lying,  then?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  that  made  any  real  difference 
to  you.  How  could  it?  You  know  well  enough 
it  didn't,  to  me." 

"  And  this  doesn't,  to  me." 

"  But  it  does  to  me !  It  makes  all  the  difference 
to  me!  Don't  tell  me  you  don't  care  for  that  man 
— I  know  you  do." 

"  Yes,  in  a  way — I  am — fond  of  him.  It's 
true." 

"  Yes,  it's  true.  And  you've  written  to 
him." 

"  Yes.  And  Fve  sent  a  cable  to  London  to  find 
out  whether  he's  dead  or  alive." 

"  Yes ! " 

Basil  got  up  and  walked  a  few  steps  down  the 
path,  and  stood  still.  Teresa  wrapped  her  scarf 
more  closely  about  her  and  shivered  slightly.  A 
cold  wind  swept  through  the  orchard ;  dry  leaves 
came  fluttering  down  from  the  apple-trees. 

"  We  can't  go  on,"  said  Basil,  hollowly. 


386  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  What  did  you  say? "  she  asked,  moving 
toward  him. 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  but  I  don't  think  we  can 
go  on.  I  can't  stand  this  ...  I  shall  go 
away." 

"  Go  away — where?  " 

"  Anywhere.    I  shall  go  away  from  you." 

"  You  mean  you'll  leave  us — Konald  and  me?  " 

"  Ronald    .    .    .    yes." 

"  As  you  please,  Basil." 

She  turned  and  went  back  to  the  house  by  an- 
other path.  There  she  took  her  work  and  shut 
herself  up  in  her  own  room.  It  was  cold;  the 
fire  was  not  lit.  She  shivered,  walking  up  and 
down  the  room,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
light  the  fire.  Her  discomfort  seemed  part  of  a 
general  past  that  had  enveloped  the  world.  And 
yet  there  was  a  core  of  warmth  somewhere,  a 
thought  that  caused  her  a  certain  exultation.  It 
was  absurd  of  Basil  to  take  this  thing  so  seri- 
ously, but  she  was  glad  he  was  absurd  in  that 
way — she  was  thoroughly  glad  that  he  cared  so 
much!  Only,  if  he  did  take  it  seriously,  who 
knew?  She  had  no  intention  of  being  humble 
about  what  she  had  done.  Perhaps  it  had  been 
foolish,  but  had  Basil  alone  the  right  to  be  fool- 
ish? Where  was  his  right  to  sit  in  judgment 
upon  her?  How  angry  he  had  been  at  that  word 
— "  right  " !  Possibly  it  was  a  foolish  word — they 
could  not  theorise  about  this  situation.  It  was  a 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  387 

question  of  necessity,  Basil  had  said — in  other 
words,  of  his  demand.  And  he  had  enforced  that 
demand  by  a  threat  .  .  .  Yes,  he  might  go 
away — and  she  could  not  let  him  go.  Ne- 
cessity .  .  . 

She  sat  down  and  took  up  her  damp  clay,  but 
her  fingers  were  stiff  with  cold.  She  shivered, 
and  all  of  a  sudden  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  Why 
had  she  hurt  Basil  so?  How  had  she  been  able 
to  look  at  him,  to  see  that  he  was  suffering,  and 
almost  rejoice  in  it?  What  had  come  to  her? 
"  My  God,  what  has  come  to  you,  Teresa?  "  he 
had  cried.  Yes,  what?  An  instinct  of  cruelty,  for 
one  thing.  Never  before  had  she  deliberately 
made  any  person  suffer,  as  she  had  been  con- 
scious of  doing  just  now.  A  feeling  of  reckless- 
ness, carelessness  of  herself  .  .  .  Crayven  .  .  . 
that  day  in  the  forest  .  .  . 

She  did  not  regret  it.  If  Basil  suffered  for  it, 
she  must  suffer  for  it,  that  was  all.  Of  course 
she  would  not  let  him  go.  What  he  demanded  she 
must  yield.  There  was  something  behind  his  de- 
mand, something  more  than  his  own  egotism. 
Necessity  .  .  . 


IV 

THE  question  of  his  right  to  know  was  then 
waived.  That  night  she  told  him  what  there 
was  to  tell,  with  complete  frankness.  He  would 
leave  no  detail  to  the  imagination.  He  wanted 
to  know  all,  all. 

It  seemed  to  Teresa  that  there  was  not  very 
much  to  tell.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Basil's  in- 
finite questions  wanted  to  wring  more  out  of  the 
facts  than  they  contained,  almost.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  some  part  of  his  intelligence  was  trying 
to  construct,  quite  impersonally,  a  drama,  in 
which  she  figured  merely  as  an  actor.  This  was 
a  momentary  impression,  swept  away  by  the  out- 
break of  his  emotion. 

He  was  moved  as  she  had  never  seen  him. 
Never  before  had  she  seen  hate  in  his  eyes,  and 
she  saw  it  now.  It  was  as  though  an  earthquake 
had  convulsed  the  depths  of  an  heretofore  quiet 
sea,  and  all  sorts  of  monsters  came  tossing  to  the 
surface — monstrous  thoughts,  blind  words.  She 
sat  silent  while  the  storm  raged,  her  hands 
clenched  on  the  arms  of  her  chair,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  Basil's  face,  which  for  the  first  time  looked 
ugly  to  her.  All  the  strength  and  brightness  of 
his  aspect  were  gone,  swamped  in  the  nervous 
frenzy  that  shook  him. 

388 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  389 

"  It  is  his  pride  that  is  hurt,"  thought  Teresa. 
"  It  is  his  vanity,  his  sense  of  possession  .  .  ." 
And  she  felt  farther  removed  from  him  at  that 
moment  than  ever  before.  It  seemed  possible  to 
her  that  this  might  really  mean  a  break  between 
them.  It  was  clearly  in  his  mind,  the  idea  of 
separation.  And  he  threw  out  a  fierce  threat — 
he  would  take  the  child.  At  that,  every  atom  of 
colour  left  her  face.  She  sat,  ashy-white,  staring 
at  him.  She  felt  her  heart  beating  with  great  dull 
throbs — she  felt  the  life  ebbing  out  of  her  body 
in  anguish.  He  might  ruin  her  life,  then.  It 
was  an  enemy  that  she  saw  before  her,  and  one 
that  she  could  not  fight.  He  had  not  the  right 
to  take  the  child,  but  the  thought  of  such  a  con- 
test between  them  was  impossible.  If  it  came 
to  that,  she  would  kill  herself. 

There  came  a  silence,  at  last.  Basil  had  hurled 
at  her  everything  he  had  to  say,  and  he  stood  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room,  not  looking  at  her.  She 
had  no  impulse  to  defend  herself — it  would  have 
been  physically  impossible  for  her  to  utter  a 
word,  to  move  even.  At  last  he  went  abruptly 
out  of  the  room,  and  a  moment  later  she  heard 
him  leave  the  house.  She  sat  where  he  had  left 
her,  while  the  fire  died  down  into  a  bed  of  coals, 
and  grey  ashes  gathered  over  it  and  killed  the 
last  red  gleam,  and  the  chill  of  the  frosty  night 
crept  into  the  room.  .  .  . 

.When  she  heard  him  come  back,  hours  later, 


390 


THE     BOND 


she  went  shivering  to  her  bed,  but  she  did  not 
sleep.  He  was  there,  under  the  same  roof  with 
her,  but  a  freezing  terror  lay  between  them — the 
terror  of  the  end  of  love,  of  ugliness  where  there 
had  been  beauty,  of  death  where  there  had  been 
life.  Was  it  possible  that  such  a  failure  could 
be  theirs?  Was  this  thing  real,  or  was  it  a  spectre, 
a  shadow,  that  they  might  still  escape  from?  She 
did  not  know  .  .  . 

Whose  was  the  fault?  Hers  directly,  she  knew. 
How  prodigal  they  had  both  been  of  the  real 
treasure  of  their  lives,  how  careless  of  the  pre- 
cious thing  they  held!  But  who  could  have 
guessed  that  it  was  fragile?  How  had  it  been 
possible  to  think  that  what  held  them  together 
needed  cherishing,  needed  care?  Had  either  of 
them  really  conceived  before  that  that  bond 
could  be  broken?  Had  either  of  them  imagined 
such  bankruptcy? 

And  now  it  was  facing  them.     She  knew  in- 
stinctively that  this  was  the  real  test  of  their 
relation.    She  knew  that  Basil's  fault  could  not 
have  ruined  the  scheme  of  their  life  together; 
she  knew  that  hers  could.     She  saw  herself  as 
the  key-stone  of  the  structure;  she  saw  suddenly 
;hat  there  was,  that  there  must  be  a  structure, 
,nd  that  it  must  depend  upon  her.  All  the  labo- 
iousness  of  life,  the  grey  aspect  of  duty,  the  ne- 
essity  for  infinite,  incessant  exertion  of  the  will, 
ior  self-control,  for  self-sacrifice — all  the  puritan 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  391 

conception  of  the  world  and  the  human  soul  — 
surged  over  her  like  a  cold  muddy  sea.  Was  this, 
ijthen,  what  one  must  live  in?  And  to  what  end? 
tTo  pass  the  endless  struggle  on  to  someone  else? 

For  the  first  time,  it  seemed  to  her,  in  the  long 
hours  of  that  night,  she  saw  the  world  as  it  really 
was.  She  saw  it  as  a  long  combat,  and  she  saw 
that  no  relation  could  escape  this  law  of  struggle 
and  change,  certainly  not  hers  and  Basil's.  Be- 
tween them,  too,  it  must  be  a  combat,  a  struggle 
to  keep  what  they  had  conquered,  a  fight  against 
those  things  in  one  another,  in  themselves,  that 
tended  to  destroy,  a  long  fight  against  decay  and 
the  death  of  what  was  precious. 

She  saw  in  a  flash  how  she  had  injured  a  cer- 
tain ideal  of  herself  in  Basil's  mind ;  she  saw  all 
the  power  of  that  ideal  to  bind,  to  anchor  him. 
She  saw  how  he  had  set  her  apart,  because  of  it, 
from  all  feminine  lightness  and  weakness,  too 
well  known.  And  the  violence  of  his  reaction 
against  the  having  to  change  his  idea  of  her 
'  showed  her  how  much  it  had  meant  to  him.  It 
was  perhaps  unreasonable,  his  ideal,  his  idea  of 
her,  but  she  acknowledged  that  he  was  right  to 
want  her  to  realise  it.  Now,  perhaps,  it  would 
never  be  real  to  him  again.  She  had  broken  one 
of  the  cords  that  bound  him  to  her.  She  saw  be- 
fore her  a  battle  to  regain  what  she  had  lost,  or 
to  replace  it  by  something  else.  She  took  up  her 
courage  in  both  hands  and  vowed  herself  to  that 


392  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

battle.  If  she  could  not  be  to  him,  now,  what  he 
had  thought  her,  she  would  make  herself  a  new 
value  to  him.  They  might  be  fellow-sinners,  but 
he  should  not,  for  all  that,  hold  her  for  less. 

'••••• 

At  dawn  he  came  into  her  room,  came  and  put 
his  head  down  on  her  pillow,  and  said  wearily 
that  he  could  not  sleep.  At  that  she  burst  out 
crying  wildly,  sobbed  out  passionately  her  hu- 
mility, her  regret,  her  fear,  her  love.  And  they 
clung  together  like  two  waifs  in  a  storm,  feeling 
darkness  and  danger  all  about  them  .  .  . 

All  that  day  Basil  spent  moodily  by  himself, 
fitfully  trying  to  work,  or  tramping  about  the 
place.  In  the  afternoon  a  cablegram  came  for 
Teresa — her  informant  said  that  the  danger  was 
past,  and  Crayven  safe — and  the  storm  broke  out 
afresh.  Basil's  resentment  surged  up  furiously 
• — Teresa  replied  bitterly. 

"  You  treat  me  like  a  slave,"  she  said  at  last, 
in  deep  humiliation.  "  I  am  an  individual  as 
much  as  you.  You  haven't  the  right  to  judge 
me." 

"  But  I  do  judge  you.  Either  you  belong  to 
me,  or  you  don't.  It's  as  simple  as  that,  and  you 
can  choose.  If  you  belong  to  me,  you  don't  belong 
even  by  a  thought  to  anyone  else.  That's  all  there 
is  to  it.  If  you're  my  wife,  you'll  have  no  lovers, 
by  letter  or  any  other  way.  You'll  have  no  more 
letters  from  Crayven " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  393 

"You  issue  your  commands  as  though  I  had 
nothing  to  do  but  obey." 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  commands  and  obeying. 
It's  a  question  of  seeing  a  clear  situation,  recog- 
nising what  it  means  to  me  and  to  you  .  .  . 
and  I'm  not  sure,  even  if  you  do  recognise  it,  that 
I  can  ever  trust  you  again.  I  can't  feel  toward 
you  as  I  did  before.  You'll  always  be  different— 
less  mine  than  you  were  ...  I  can't  under- 
stand how  you  could  do  this  .  .  ." 

"And  you?  You  keep  the  full  right  to  do 
exactly  as  you  choose,  yourself?  You  won't 
recognise  any  responsibility  in  what  has  hap- 
pened .  .  ." 

"  The  question  is  entirely  different  for  me  and 
you — you  know  it  must  be  so.  If  I  made  a  mis- 
take I  paid  for  it,  long  before  this,  and  now  you 
have  made  me  pay  a  thousand  times  over.  But 
you'll  have  to  pay  too,  inevitably.  If  you  were 
trying  for  revenge !  " 

"  No,  it  wasn't  quite  so  crude  as  that !  But 
perhaps  it  was  inevitable,  too,  that  you  should 
suffer  for  what  you  made  me  suffer " 

"You  suffer?  You  didn't,  you  didn't  really 
care  deeply " 

"  Oh,  didn't  I !  Didn't  I !  Do  you  believe  that, 
Basil?  I  had  no  idea  of  making  you  pay,  though. 
I  had  impulses  to  hurt  you,  I  hated  you  some- 
times, but  I  never  deliberately  meant  to  make  you 
suffer — but  perhaps  you  ought  to,  for  what  you 


394  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

did  to  me.  You  made  me  worse  than  I  was, 
Basil." 

"  Don't  say  that — it  isn't  true !  "  he  cried. 
"Haven't  you  given  me  enough?  ...  It  isn't 
only  for  myself  I  feel  this,"  he  went  on.  "  It's 
for  you,  too.  It's  because  I  know  in  the  end  it's 
always  the  woman  that  pays.  If  you  injure  our 
life  together,  you'll  pay  even  more  than  I  shall. 
If  you,  being  what  you  are,  should  have  a  lover, 
you'd  have  to  pay  for  that — pay  in  injury  to  your 
pride,  in  a  thousand  ways.  A  woman  that  gives 
herself  to  a  man  who  doesn't  deeply  love  her — a 
woman  who  has  anything  to  lose — is  a  fool.  The 
reaction  takes  him  away  from  her,  as  sure  as 
fate,  and  even  a  man  who  isn't  a  brute  can't  help 
making  her  feel  it.  You've  nothing  to  gain  in 
that  game,  Teresa,  and  everything  to  lose.  And 
first  of  all  you  lose  me — if  you  care  anything 
about  me.  For  I  tell  you,  I  couldn't  stand  it.  If 
you  did  that  sort  of  thing  again,  I  believe  I'd 
kill  you — at  least  I'd  take  myself  off  where  you'd 
never  see  me  again.  .  .  I've  had  more  than 
one  impulse  to  do  it,  anyway." 

"  What — kill  me?  "  said  Teresa,  with  a  wan 
smile. 

"  No,  go  away  from  you.  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
shan't,  as  it  is.  I  can  never  believe  now  that  you 
really  care  about  me.  You  might  find  somebody 
else,  who'd  make  you  happier.  You've  always 
disliked  a  lot  about  me,  anyway." 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  395 

"And  you — what  would  you  do?  " 

"  Oh,  I'd  knock  about  somehow  and  work.  I've 
had  enough  of  women.  There  isn't  one  that  I've 
any  respect  for  now." 

Basil's  anger  sank  into  a  cool  and  biting  mood, 
which  lasted  on  from  day  to  day.  He  talked  less 
and  less  to  Teresa,  and  finally  became  almost 
altogether  silent.  He  shut  himself  up  in  the 
studio  for  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and  now 
he  was  really  working.  He  was  forcing  himself 
to  work,  and  Teresa  saw  the  marks  of  this  fierce 
effort  of  will  in  his  face.  And  she  saw  in  it  a  new 
hardness,  forming  like  a  mask — a  jaded,  an  older 
look  .  .  . 

Basil  was  cutting  himself  off  from  her.  They 
were  very  little  together  now.  She  felt  that  some 
change  was  impending.  Something  was  going 
on  in  his  mind,  of  which  he  would  not  speak. 
Whatever  it  was,  it  would  have  some  practical 
effect.  She  felt  that  he  was  deciding  something, 
and  without  her.  Was  he  slipping  away  from 
her  .  .  .  ?  Was  she  to  lose  him,  really,  and 
for  a  thing  so  slight  in  itself  as  her  relation  with 
Crayven,  whatever  that  relation  might  have  in- 
dicated to  Basil?  She  could  not  believe  it  pos- 
sible. But  she  was  proudly  silent,  too,  while  her 
very  heart  seemed  turning  to  ice  within  her. 


came  to  be  the  atmosphere  of  the 
^  house — a  silence  with  no  peace  in  it.  Basil 
was  now  working  hard,  at  a  picture  for  wThich  he 
had  made  innumerable  studies  from  models  in 
town — a  group  of  nude  figures  in  a  sylvan  land- 
scape, in  astonishing  tones  of  blue  and  yellow 
colour.  He  was  absorbed,  and  he  had  no  moments 
of  relaxation.  When  he  was  not  working  he 
roamed  moodily  about  by  himself.  When  Teresa 
spoke  of  his  picture  he  looked  at  her  gloomily  and 
answered  shortly;  and  once  when  she  pressed 
him  with  questions  he  said,  "  Don't  talk  about  it. 
You're  not  interested  in  my  work."  She  saw  in 
him  a  desire  to  bury  himself  in  that  work,  to  shut 
her  out.  Yet  he  might  have  retreated  to  his  stu- 
dio in  town,  and  he  did  not  do  so.  He  sought  no 
other  person.  Apparently  he  wished  to  be  near 
her  and  yet  apart  from  her ;  and  to  make  her  feel 
daily,  hourly,  the  cold  pain  of  this  separation  of 
spirit. 

After  a  week  or  more  it  grew  intolerable  to 
Teresa.  She  went  into  town,  spent  the  day  with 
Alice  Blackley,  looked  up  her  Aunt  Sophy,  who 
had  just  come  back  from  a  lecture-tour  in  the 
West,  and  finally  telegraphed  to  Basil  that  she 
would  dine  and  stay  the  night  with  Alice.  The 

396 


T  H  B     B  O  N  D  307 

dinner  was  gay.  Alice  made  up  a  little  party 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  One  of  the  men  was 
Jack  Fairfax.  They  went  to  a  theatre  and  ended 
with  supper  at  a  restaurant,  prolonged  into  the 
early  hours  of  the  morning.  Teresa  threw  herself 
into  the  rather  boisterous  merriment  of  the  oc- 
casion; her  gaiety  had  a  sharper,  harder  edge 
than  of  old.  Fairfax  talked  to  her  and  watched 
her  with  reawakened  and  growing  interest.  She 
talked  to  him  as  though  she  found  him  interest- 
ing ;  and  before  they  parted  it  had  been  arranged 
that  he  was  to  motor  out  with  Alice  on  the  next 
day  but  one  and  lunch  at  Teresa's  house. 

That  luncheon  was  also  boisterous,  owing,  as 
Teresa  now  perceived,  to  Alice's  new  atmosphere. 
Alice  had  quite  done  being  aesthetic.  She  was 
living  now  with  smarter  people,  and  she  was  con- 
scientiously playing  at  being  fast,  as  she  had 
before  played  at  being  artistic.  She  drank  two 
cocktails  before  luncheon,  and  during  the  meal 
alternately  chaffed  Basil  and  made  eyes  at  him. 
Basil  returned  the  chaff  and  the  eyes  with  inter- 
est and  rather  brutally.  Alice  was  beautifully 
dressed;  Basil,  with  the  frankness  of  a  student 
of  the  human  form,  admired  her  figure,  and  re- 
ceived on  the  spot  a  request  to  paint  her  portrait. 

"  Only  in  town,  you  know,"  she  said.  "  I 
can't  come  out  to  this  dreary  place.  Why  on 
earth  do  you  stay  here?  Only  a  pair  of  turtle- 
doves like  you  two  could  stand  it." 


398  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  Hard  up,"  said  Basil  laconically. 

"  Oh,  nonsense — corne  to  town  and  I'll  get  you 
heaps  of  people  to  paint.  Or  if  you've  got  a  few 
thousands  by  you,  ask  Horace  for  a  tip.  He  can 
put  you  on  to  something  good,  he's  been  making 
pots  of  money." 

Basil  smiled — at  Teresa,  and  she  flushed  hotly 
over  all  her  face.  It  was  the  first  smile  for  ten 
days!  It  meant,  she  knew,  only  an  ironic  com- 
ment on  that  "  few  thousands  "  of  Alice's — they 
would  have  felt  rich  with  a  few  thousands  by 
them.  At  least  they  still  had  their  poverty  in 
common!  Alice  noticed  her  flush  and  stared 
curiously  at  her. 

"  Flirting  across  the  table,"  she  said.  "  I  al- 
ways say  you  are  the  most  domestic  people  I 
know.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  Isabel  Perry's 
back?  She's  somewhere  near  you  here,  isn't 
she?  " 

"  Half  a  mile  away,"  said  Teresa. 

"  No,  really !  I'm  coming  down  to  stay  a  week- 
end with  her  next  month.  How  jolly !  You'll  be 
there,  too,  perhaps — you're  great  chums,  aren't 
you?  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  for  nearly  a  year." 

"Oh,  but  you  w<ere  great  chums?  Or  was  it 
Basil?  Yes,  now  I  think  of  it,  it  was  Basil,"  and 
Alice  smiled  wantonly.  She  was  not  ill-natured, 
but  she  was  a  little  excited. 

Basil  looked  at  Teresa  and  she  saw  boredom 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  399 

and  disgust  in  his  quick  glance.  He  became  cere- 
moniously polite  to  his  guests,  which  always 
meant,  with  Basil,  that  he  wished  them  away. 
His  finely-cut  face,  with  the  new  look  of  austerity 
that  the  last  fortnight  had  given  it,  with  its  new 
hardness,  took  on  an  expression  of  satiric  pa- 
tience. He  paid  Alice  some  outrageous  compli- 
ments, and  at  last  even  her  not  very  acute  sensi- 
bilities were  touched. 

"  What  an  old  prig  you're  getting  to  be,  Basil," 
she  said  carelessly,  as  they  left  the  table.  "  You're 
so  different  from  what  you  used  to  be — there 
isn't  any  more  jollity  about  you  now  than  there 
is  about  a  town-pump.  And  you  look  as  if  butter 
wouldn't  melt  in  your  mouth.  Eeally,  you're  a 
wet  blanket.  I'm  going  to  take  Teresa  off  with 
me  in  the  motor.  I'm  sure  she  wants  a  little  life, 
poor  dear." 

"  By  all  means,  give  it  to  her,"  said  Basil.  "  I'm 
quite  aware  that  I'm  dull  company,  as  you  say 
— I'm  only  a  poor  grub,  plugging  away.  I  don't 
pretend  to  compete  with  bright  butterflies  like 
you  and  Fairfax." 

Teresa  went  off  in  the  motor,  which  Alice  in- 
sisted on  driving  herself  at  a  flying  speed,  and 
which  came  to  grief,  descending  a  hill,  at  a  sharp 
turn.  A  tire  burst,  and  the  machine  was  left 
with  the  chauffeur.  Alice  and  Fairfax  walked 
to  a  near-by  station  and  took  a  train,  and  Teresa 
walked  home — six  miles  along  the  silent  country 


400  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

roads.  It  was  dark  when  she  reached  the  house, 
and  Basil  came  out  to  meet  her. 

"An  accident?  "  he  said  irritably.  "  I  thought 
there  would  be  one — it's  lucky  your  neck  isn't 
broken.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  out  on  that  sort 
of  a  tear  again." 

"  Oh,  it's  amusing,"  said  Teresa  coldly. 

"Amusing!  You  find  those  people  amusing! 
Or  was  it  the  chance  of  breaking  your  neck  that 
amused  you?  " 

"Both,  I  think.  I  like  the  sensation  of  some- 
thing happening,  even  if  it's  only  rushing  along 
in  a  motor." 

"  Or  swilling  cocktails  at  lunch  and  flirting, 
I  suppose?  " 

"I  didn't  swill  any  cocktails.  Really,  Basil, 
you're  turning  over  a  new  leaf." 

"  I'm  not  the  only  one.  I  don't  care  much  for 
this  last  leaf  that  you've  turned  over.  Alice  is 
getting  too  vulgar " 

"Anything  is  better  than  living  in  an  ice-box, 
as  I've  been  doing  lately." 

"  Is  it?  All  right,  but  if  you  want  to  bring 
that  sort  out  here,  I  shall  have  to  work  in 
town." 

He  went  into  the  studio,  and  Teresa  looked 
after  him  despairingly.  After  a  few  moments 
she  followed  him.  The  room  was  dark,  except 
for  the  firelight.  He  had  thrown  himself  into  a 
big  chair  before  the  fire,  and  was  staring  into  it, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  401 

his  head  bent  in  an  attitude  of  weariness.  She 
went  over  to  him  and  put  her  arm  about  his 
shoulders.  Brusquely  he  shook  it  off. 

"  Don't  do  that,"  he  said  sombrely. 

"Bas    .     .     ." 

His  name  died  on  her  lips.  She  stood  for  some 
moments,  looking  dumbly  at  his  head,  at  the 
gleam  of  the  fire-light  on  his  hair  and  his  averted 
cheek,  then  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

That  week  Basil's  father  came  out  to  spend  a 
day.  He  had  been  ill,  at  his  suburban  home, 
for  a  month  or  more.  Twice  Teresa  had  been  out 
there  to  see  him,  in  a  little  house  full  of  half- 
grown  children  and  the  odours  of  liberal  German 
cooking.  The  Major  seemed  much  more  himself, 
away  from  that  atmosphere.  Yet  he  was  greatly 
changed,  physically,  by  his  illness.  His  smart 
clothes  hung  upon  a  wasted  figure,  his  cheeks  had 
fallen  in,  and  the  old  scar  near  his  eye  showed 
more  distinctly  against  his  present  pallor.  He 
was  changed  mentally,  too.  He  talked  about 
himself  and  his  ailments,  and  the  old  wounds  he 
had  received  in  the  war,  which  were  troubling 
him  again.  His  voice  was  querulous,  and  he 
moved  feebly. 

But  he  had  all  his  habitual  fondness  for  Teresa, 
and  showed  it.  Several  times  he  called  her 
"  Daughter  " — the  name  was  sweet  to  her.  He 
brightened  up  to  talk  to  Konald,  but  a  half-hour 


402  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

with  the  child  fatigued  him.  It  tired  him,  too, 
to  talk  to  Basil,  and  Teresa  caught  more  than  one 
troubled  and  puzzled  glance  as  the  old  man  began 
to  feel  some  change  in  his  son.  It  frightened  him, 
she  could  see;  and  she  saw,  too,  that  he  dreaded 
any  fresh  blow  to  his  sapped  strength;  his  own 
troubles  were  all  he  could  bear.  When  Basil 
went  away,  saying  he  had  work  to  do,  and  leaving 
them  together,  the  Major  was  visibly  relieved. 
He  did  not  ask  about  Basil,  but  leaning  over  the 
fire  he  began  to  talk  again  about  himself.  He 
told  Teresa  in  what  battles  he  had  been  wounded, 
and  strayed  into  detailed  war-time  reminiscences, 
and  talked  about  his  hero,  Grant;  and  rambled 
and  wandered  on,  while  she  half-listened,  putting 
in  a  gentle  word  now  and  then,  and  looking  at 
the  fire. 

She  was  thinking,  first  about  the  Major,  and 
realising  with  a  shock  his  physical  breaking-up. 
Then  she  thought  what  a  blow  to  him  would  be 
any  trouble  between  herself  and  Basil,  and  how 
an  open  rupture  would  affect  him.  If  it  came 
to  that — and  she  was  thinking  it  might — they 
ought,  if  possible,  to  spare  the  Major  the  knowl- 
edge of  it.  They  would  not  have  very  long  to 
wait.  ...  He  was  the  only  one  of  the  family 
on  either  side  who  would  keenly  feel  it.  Her  own 
parents  were  dead,  her  Aunt  Sophy  would  rejoice 
at  her  freedom,  and  Nina — Nina  would  say  she 
had  deserved  it,  perhaps.  A  hot  flush  blazed  up 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  403 

in  her  face  at  the  thought  of  Nina — and  she  be- 
came aware  suddenly  that  she  had  not  been  list- 
ening to  the  Major,  and  that  he  was  talking  in  a 
new  tone. 

He  was  talking  about  Basil's  mother.  He 
seemed  to-day  to  be  living  altogether  in  the  past 
He  seemed  now  to  be  living  over  again  vividly 
the  love  of  his  youth.  Physical  weakness  had 
made  him  garrulous  and  he  talked  as  though  he 
were  talking  to  himself.  He  murmured  and 
crooned  over  old  scenes  of  his  wooing;  her 
looks  and  words;  her  daring,  her  cleverness,  her 
beauty. 

"  I've  never  seen  a  woman  like  her,  my  dear," 
he  said.  "  I've  lived  thirty  years  in  the  world 
since  she  died,  and  I've  never  seen  a  woman  fit 
to  tie  her  shoes.  /  used  to  tie  'em,  by  Jove,  and 
put  'em  on  for  her.  She'd  never  put  on  her  own 
shoes  and  stockings  in  her  life  before  she  married 
me.  She  might  have  had  many  a  more  brilliant 
match  than  /  was,  but  she  took  me,  a  poor  young 
soldier.  Good  God,  what  was  I,  to  deserve  such  a 
creature?  The  day  she  promised  herself  to  /me, 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  a  goddess  had  stooped  down 
and  kissed  me.  And  she  was  proud !  .  .  .  You 
can't  imagine  how  beautiful  she  was  .  .  . 
when  she  took  down  her  hair  it  covered  her  to 
her  knees  in  a  glory  like  copper  and  gold  .  .  ." 

Something  like  a  sob  broke  the  old  man's  voice. 
"My  happiness  was  brief,"  he  whispered,  and 


THE     BOND 

became  silent;  his  lips  moving  now  and  then, 
without  sound. 

Teresa  thought :  He  is  dying,  though  perhaps 
he  does  not  know  it.  He  is  thinking  of  her  be- 
cause she  was  the  great  emotion  of  his  life,  and 
he  feels  that  he  is  going  to  find  her  again.  Per- 
haps he  will  find  her.  But  then  what  will  become 
of  poor  Agatha,  who  has  cooked  for  him  these 
many  years — and  what  will  she  do  when  she  gets 
to  heaven  and  looks  for  him?  He  is  her  husband, 
too.  But  he's  forgotten  her,  and  her  children, 
and  even  Basil — and  he  remembers  only  the 
woman  with  the  copper  hair  that  he  loved  thirty 
years  ago — and  has  loved  ever  since.  But  per- 
haps there  will  be  different  heavens.  The  Major 
and  his  lady  with  the  copper  hair  will  live  in  one 
full  of  bright  armour  and  glorious  warriors  and 
champing  steeds;  and  Agatha  will  have  one  full 
of  the  most  wonderful  things  to  cook — and  I 
daresay  the  Major  will  drop  in  to  dinner  with 
her  occasionally,  and  fib  to  the  beautiful  lady 
about  it.  .  .  . 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  His  eyelids  had  dropped 
and  she  thought  he  was  asleep.  She  sat  perfectly 
quiet  for  fear  of  waking  him,  and  her  face  was 
tender  as  she  looked  at  him. 

But  all  the  same — she  thought — there  might 
have  been  some  difficulties  in  living  with  Basil's 
mother.  Perhaps  the  Major  hadn't  had  time  to 
find  them  out.  But  if  he  had  ever  offended  her, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  405 

he  might  have  found  his  goddess  a  stern  judge. 
.  .  .  And  she  smiled  with  bitter  melancholy. 

The  Major,  when  he  came  to  go  away,  as  she 
walked  out  with  him  to  the  carriage,  took  her 
hand  and  looked  wistfully  at  her,  and  said : 

"  You're  not  looking  well,  Teresa." 

"  Oh,  I'm  quite  well,"  she  said  in  surprise. 

The  Major  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  you're  not,"  he  said,  and  she  caught  again 
that  look  of  troubled  apprehension  in  his  eyes. 

Basil,  who  was  going  to  take  the  Major  home, 
looked  at  her  too,  a  sudden  quick  scrutiny,  but 
he  said  nothing. 

Ronald  came  to  kiss  his  grandfather  good-bye, 
and  Teresa,  too,  kissed  him;  and  as  she  leaned 
over  the  gate  and  watched  the  carriage  drive  away 
down  the  darkening  road,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
all  the  world  was  sinking  in  decay :  the  old  man 
there,  the  fading  sunset  that  she  saw  through 
leafless  trees,  her  own  fading  life.  For  the  Major 
was  quite  right — the  strain  of  the  last  weeks  was 
beginning  to  show  in  her  face.  The  colour  and 
the  life  had  died  out  of  it,  under  the  freeezing 
pressure  of  pain  and  dread. 


yi 

SOME  days  later  Mrs.  Perry  came  to  see  her — 
greeted  her  without  affectation  of  cordiality, 
with  a  square,  straight  look  in  the  eyes,  and 
said: 

"  I've  just  found  out  you  were  here.  I  live  near 
by,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Teresa,  perfectly  at  her 
ease. 

"  I  have  a  good  many  people  coming  down  to 
see  me.  Perhaps  you  would  both  come  to  dine 
some  night." 

"  I  think  so — with  pleasure." 

"  Do  you  like  it  here?    Shall  you  stay  long?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  long.  Basil  finds  he  can 
work  well  here.  I'm  sorry  he  happens  to  be  in 
town  to-day." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  come  on  Sunday  to 
dinner?  Eight  o'clock.  I  don't  know  that 
it  will  be  very  amusing  for  you — it  isn't  for 
me." 

And  Isabel  smiled  listlessly.  She  had  changed 
much  in  the  year  past.  She  was  much  quieter. 
She  sat  quiet  in  her  chair,  and  her  long  hands 
lay  quiet  in  her  lap.  She  was  pale,  and  looked 
ten  years  older  than  when  Teresa  had  seen  her 

406 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  407 

last.  She  was  plainly  dressed  in  black,  had  left 
off  all  her  jewels,  and  all  the  restless,  nervous 
animation  of  her  former  manner  had  gone,  with 
the  glitter  of  the  diamonds  of  which  she  had  been 
so  fond. 

Teresa  watched  her  curiously,  while  they 
chatted  about  Alice  Blackley  and  various  peo- 
ple they  knew  in  common.  She  was  surprised 
to  find  that  the  sight  of  Isabel  moved  her  so  little. 
She  thought  of  the  emotions  Isabel  had  cost  her, 
almost  with  a  smile.  All  that  seemed  far  away — 
since  then  she  had  travelled  far.  She  could  look 
at  the  other  woman  quite  calmly,  and  realise 
impersonally  her  interest.  Isabel  was  a  person, 
one  could  not  deny  that — and  much  more  a  per- 
son now  than  she  had  been  a  year  before.  Some 
experience  that  meant  a  good  deal  to  her  had  in- 
tervened. Teresa  found  herself  wondering  what 
it  was.  She  felt  she  might  risk  a  question  or 
two.  Whatever  Isabel  might  have  been  once,  she 
now  plainly  had  herself  well  in  hand.  She  could 
carry  off  a  rather  difficult  situation,  like  the  pres- 
ent, without  a  fault  of  taste.  There  was  no  dan- 
ger of  any  scene.  They  understood  one  another. 
Isabel  was  honest — she  had  made  no  attempt  to 
put  things  on  a  false  basis.  Things,  as  they 
stood,  were  tacitly  taken  for  granted,  that  was 
all.  And,  as  they  talked  about  indifferent  mat- 
ters, simply,  without  constraint,  they  were  ap- 
proaching one  another:  not  sentimentally  or 


408  THE     BOND 

with  any  impulse  toward  embarrassing  confi- 
dences, but  with  the  feeling  of  one  definite  per- 
sonality for  another,  with  a  certain  pleasure  in 
this  non-hostile  contact. 

"  Have  you  been  ill?  "  Teresa  asked  finally. 

"  Nervous  prostration,  I  believe  it  was,"  Isabel 
answered  sceptically.  "  I'm  supposed  to  be  still 
having  it,  whatever  it  is.  It  is  rather  pleasant 
now.  It's  simply  a  disinclination  to  do  any 
mortal  thing,  and  I  like  that.  After  nearly  forty 
years  of  activity  for  its  own  sake,  it's  pleasant 
not  to  want  to  do  anything,  and  to  have  a  head- 
ache at  the  back  of  your  neck  if  you  try  to  do 
anything." 

"  But  Alice  said  you  were  seeing  a  lot  of 
people." 

"  Oh,  just  seeing  them.  One  needn't  talk,  you 
know.  They  come  and  dine  and  gamble.  Some- 
times I  don't  even  appear.  If  they  didn't  come  I 
should  be  trying  to  read  or  something.  As  it  is, 
I  watch  them,  and  enjoy  my  own  decay.  .  .  . 
Well,  then  you'll  come  on  Sunday?  I  shall  send 
a  motor  over  for  you.  You  can't  drive  in  these 
country  cabs — you'd  freeze  to  death.  May  I  see 
the  boy?" 

Eonald  was  brought  in,  and  envisaged  the  lady 
with  his  cool  but  not  unfriendly  gaze.  They  en- 
tered upon  the  subject  of  automobiles,  or 
"Wongs,"  as  Eonald  called  them;  and  finding 
that  the  lady  was  the  possessor  of  the  splendid 


THE     BOND 

red  Wong  now  waiting  outside  the  gate,  Ronald 
warmed  up,  asked  for  a  ride,  and  departed  cheer- 
fully in  company  with  the  stranger. 

Basil,  when  informed  of  the  dinner-engagement, 
looked  blankly  at  Teresa. 

"  You  said  we'd  go?  You  might  have  asked 
me  first.  I  don't  want  to  go,  and  I  don't  think  I 
shall.  What  have  we  to  do  with  that  crowd?  " 

Teresa's  reply  was  less  cold  because  of  the 
«  we." 

"  I  think  perhaps  we  ought  to  go  once.  It 
would  be  rather  awkward  not  to  go  at  all,  after 
her  visit." 

Basil  was  plainly  disconcerted.  He  looked  at 
Teresa  with  astonishment  not  quite  sufficiently 
veiled  by  indifference. 

"  You  can  call  on  her  if  you  like.  I  can't  see 
why  I  should  go." 

"  It  would  be  mere  politeness  to  do  so,  I  should 
think." 

"  Should  you?  I'm  not  going  in  for  mere  po- 
liteness." 

"Well,  there's  no  need  for  going  in  for  bear- 
like  savagery.  I  should  think  you'd  hibernated 
long  enough." 

"  I  supose  you're  bored  and  want  to  see  some 
men.  But  if  we  go  there  we  shall  lose  a  lot  more 
money  than  we  can  afford,  at  bridge." 

"  We  needn't  go  again.    But  I  think  she'd  feel 


410  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

cut  if  we  didn't,  this  once.  She  was  rather  nice 
to-day — I  liked  her." 

Basil  dropped  the  talk  abruptly  there,  but 
Teresa  felt  that  her  wish  would  prevail,  and  it 
did.  And  this  gave  her  a  pleasure  which  seemed 
to  herself  pathetic  and  almost  humiliating. 

She  dressed  on  the  night  of  the  dinner  with 
extraordinary  care.  She  had  chosen  a  mauve 
dress  with  touches  of  silver,  which  brought  out 
the  colour  of  her  eyes.  It  was  a  French  dress, 
of  rather  an  extreme  fashion;  and  she  followed 
out  the  same  note  of  exaggeration  in  the  way  she 
did  her  hair,  making  its  natural  mass  appear 
more  strikingly,  just  as  her  slight  and  supple 
figure  was  shown  to  the  greatest  advantage.  Us- 
ually she  was  content  to  leave  her  good  points 
more  or  less  to  make  their  own  effect,  simply; 
but  on  this  evening  her  appearance  had  the  touch 
of  obvious  art.  It  would  not  have  been  more  ob- 
vious if  she  had  put  rouge  on  her  cheeks.  She 
'preferred  to  look  pale;  and  her  pallor  was  as 
intense  and  striking  as  the  rouge  would  have 
been. 

She  came  down  from  her  room  ready  cloaked 
and  hooded,  and  Basil  did  not  see  her  otherwise 
till  she  entered  Mrs.  Perry's  drawing-room,  where 
a  dozen  people  were  assembled.  Teresa  was  aware 
on  her  entry  that  she  was  frankly  stared  at,  and 
that  Basil  was,  for  a  moment,  staring  too.  Among 
the  guests  were  several  that  she  knew — the  Kerrs, 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  411 

Alice  Blackley,  and  Fairfax.  Isabel  Perry  made 
a  simple  and  rather  majestic  figure  in  black  vel- 
vet, which  had  seen  several  seasons,  with  her  hair 
quite  carelessly  done.  Simplicity  wras  decidedly 
her  note  now,  a  perfectly  genuine  one,  and  there 
was  a  certain  air  of  the  great  lady  about  her.  As 
she  had  said  to  Teresa,  she  made  no  effort  for  her 
guests.  They  seemed  to  have  been  asked  because 
they  could  amuse  themselves. 

Isabel's  husband,  as  usual,  was  not  present, 
and  Teresa  found  herself  at  table  between  Fair- 
fax and  a  tall,  blonde,  very  handsome  youth  of 
the  smartest  aspect.  She  saw  that  Basil  sat  at 
his  hostess'  left  hand,  and  that  Isabel  talked  im- 
partially to  him  and  to  the  dull  Mr.  Kerr  on  her 
right.  Isabel's  Spanish  eyes  looked  sad,  and 
seemed  to  explore  remote  horizons.  Basil  also 
looked  remote,  and  Teresa  noted  that  he  drank 
steadily  each  wine  in  succession,  even  champagne, 
which  he  did  not  like. 

There  were  more  men  than  women  in  the  party, 
and  Teresa  soon  found  that  she  had  an  audience 
of  four  and  that  she  was  talking  with  animation. 
She  would  not  let  Fairfax  absorb  her  attention, 
and  his  frankly  amorous  manner  interested  her 
less  than  the  ingenuous  remarks  of  the  blonde 
youth,  who  openly  admired  her  also  and  told  her 
why.  He  had  evidently  been  drinking  a  little 
too  much,  but  his  exuberance  amused  her. 

"  I  can't  stand  sly-looking  women,"  he  con- 


412  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

fided  to  her.  "  And  I  can't  stand  the  bread-and- 
butter  sort  either.  I  like  women  who  have  a 
spice  of  the  devil  in  them,  you  know,  and  yet 
look  good,  too.  Women  who've  seen  the  world 
and  all  the  kingdoms  thereof.  And  they  needn't 
be  too  young,  either.  I  admire  them  most  about 
your  age.  I  don't  mean  you're  not  young.  Why, 
you  might  be  eighteen,  hang  it — I  beg  your  par- 
don— but  what  I  mean  is,  there's  experience  in 
your  face.  I  like  experience.  I  never  care  to 
talk  to  a  young  girl — they've  got  no  ideas  of  their 
own.  And  I  don't  like  women  that  pretend  to 
know  it  all,  either — like  Mrs.  Blackley.  She's 
so  awfully  knowing.  I  don't  like  that  dress  she's 
got  on — it's  affected.  I  hate  those  Empire  things 
— they're  only  suitable  for  teagowns — and  I  hate 
women  wearing  artificial  flowers  and  things  in 
their  hair." 

"  You're  rather  hard  to  please,  it  seems  to  me," 
said  Teresa. 

"  Well,  I  know  what  I  like,  and  why  shouldn't 
I?  I  like  your  dress — it's  a  lovely  colour,  and 
that  silver  embroidery  on  the  chiffon  is  beautiful. 
Do  you  live  in  New  York?" 

"  No,  I  live  out  here  in  the  country.  My  hus- 
band is  a  painter — there  he  is  up  at  the  end  of 
the  table.  I  have  one  child  and  we  live  on  four 
thousand  a  year." 

"  How — how  clever  of  you,"  stammered  the 
boy.  Teresa  smiled  sweetly  on  him  and  turned 


THE     BOND  413 

back  to  the  others.  There  was  no  talk  that  in- 
terested her,  but  under  her  boredom  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  kind  of  excitement.  It  was  pleasant 
after  all — to  be  among  people  again,  to  be  ad- 
mired, to  have  a  certain  feeling  of  lightness.  She 
was  frivolous  in  her  talk  with  Fairfax,  and  sharp 
when  he  tried  to  be  serious. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  has  happened  to  you," 
he  murmured  at  last,  exasperatedly.  "  We  were 
friends  once,  you  know.  And  you  have  changed 
completely — not  only  to  me,  but  your  very  looks 
have  changed.  The  lines  of  your  face  are  sharper 
and  harder  " 

"Age,  of  course,"  interposed  Teresa,  "  but  it 
isn't  gallant  of  you  to  point  it  out.  And  to-night, 
too,  when  I  really  tried  hard  to  make  myself  pre- 
sentable." 

"  You  are  beautiful  to-night,  and  you  know 
it.  ,What  I  mean  has  nothing  to  do  with  that. 
It's  a  spiritual  hardness  and  sharpness — it's  as 
though  your  face  had  been  worked  over,  re- 
modelled   " 

"  Massage,  perhaps?  No,  I  don't  go  in  for  any 
of  those  beautifying  processes." 

Fairfax  stifled  an  angry  ejaculation. 

"  Well,  so  be  it,"  he  said,  and  his  rather  sensual 
face  showed  a  dark  flush.  "  I  see  you  don't  want 
to  talk  to  me  as  you  did  once.  I  don't  know  that 
I'm  given  you  any  reason  to  snub  me,  but  if  it 
amuses  you — ?-" 


414  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

"  No,  it  doesn't,  Jack,"  said  Teresa,  with  sud- 
den feeling — partly  regret  at  having  hurt  what- 
ever feeling  he  had,  partly  fear  lest  something 
ugly  in  him  should  revenge  that  former  friend- 
ship he  spoke  of.  "  I  don't  want  to  snub  you. 
But  I  am  changed,  that's  true.  And  the  reason 
is,  I'm  unhappy.  Now,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't 
say  another  word." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
In  his  startled,  grave  look  she  saw  this  time  gen- 
uine feeling.  He  was  silent,  while  Teresa  plunged 
back  into  chatter  with  her  younger  neighbours. 
At  the  end  of  the  dinner,  amid  the  brilliant  dis- 
order of  the  dessert,  with  the  women  leaning 
their  bare  elbows  on  the  table  and  most  of  them 
talking  loud,  Fairfax  leaned  toward  the  laughing 
Teresa  and  said: 

"  I  say,  if  you  ever  want  anything  or  anybody, 
you  know,  I'm  at  your  service,  and  anything  I've 
got." 

She  nodded,  barely  looking  at  him,  as  the 
women  left  the  table.  His  words  sent  a  cold 
shiver  over  her.  That  it  could  be  supposed  pos- 
sible that  she  should  need  a  service  from  Fairfax ! 
What  did  he  imagine?  Why  had  she  said  that 
to  him — that  she  was  unhappy?  Need  the  world 
know  it,  if  she  was?  Were  people  to  comment 
on  her  inmost  life — was  her  soul  to  go  in  rags 
before  them?  "  Have  you  heard?  The  Ransomes 
have  separated !  I  thought  it  couldn't  last !  He 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  415 

was  rather  gay,  you  know — and  she ?  "  Her 

pride  flamed  up,  and  anger  against  herself,  for 
that  betrayal  to  Fairfax. 

In  the  drawing-room  Alice  Blackley  began  to 
talk  to  her  in  a  high  key  of  frivolity,  but  to  Te- 
resa's relief  a  message  was  brought  in  by  a  serv- 
ant: Would  Mrs.  Blackley  go  to  the  library  for 
a  few  moments  and  see  Mr.  Perry?  Alice  swept 
out  with  a  conscious  smile.  Teresa  knew  this 
little  custom  of  the  dyspeptic  and  semi-invisible 
host;  he  liked  to  chat  occasionally  with  someone 
who  amused  him. 

When  the  men  came  in,  bridge  began.  Teresa's 
partner  was  the  blonde  youth,  who  played  ex- 
tremely well,  and  she  won  nearly  forty  dollars. 
She  was  watchful  of  herself  now,  self-possessed 
and  coolly  gay. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Her  high  spirits  left  her  suddenly  when  she 
and  Basil  got  into  the  motor  for  their  homeward 
ride.  She  was  silent,  muffled  in  her  furs.  Some- 
thing of  her  old  feeling  about  Isabel  had  come 
up  again,  and  the  fact  that  she  was  riding  in 
Isabel's  motor  irritated  her.  A  mere  nothing 
had  reillumined  that  feeling — she  had  seen  Basil 
and  Isabel  look  at  one  another,  and  in  that  look 
she  seemed  to  see  their  past  intimacy.  It  was 
nothing,  for  Basil  could  not  very  well  altogether 
avoid  looking  at  Isabel.  There  had  been  no 
ardour  in  that  glance,  certainly,  but  there  had 


416  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

been,  or  so  Teresa  fancied,  an  equally  unavoidable 
recognition.  Now  she  passionately  regretted 
having  insisted  on  going. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  it?  "  asked  Basil  coolly. 

"No!     .     .     .     Why,  did  you?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  was  bored  to  tears — but  I 
expected  to  be.  I  thought  you  seemed  to  be 
amusing  yourself." 

"  I  wasn't,  though." 

"At  any  rate,  you  were  amusing  Fairfax  and 
some  of  those  college  boys.  And  I  haven't  seen 
you  look  as  gay  for  weeks.  Why  don't  you  admit 
that  you  enjoyed  your  flirtations?  " 

Basil  had  become  aggressive  and  rather  excited. 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,"  said  Teresa  wearily. 

"  Nonsense,  is  it?  Why,  you  were  got  up  so 
that  no  man  in  the  room  could  help  looking  at 
you.  I  never  saw  you  dressed  that  way  before. 
I  thought  it  rather  bad  form." 

"  I  daresay  you  prefer  Mrs.  Perry's  form.  I 
thought  you  looked  at  her  appreciatively." 

"  You  thought  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  don't 
know  what  you  call  the  way  Fairfax  looked  at 
you.  It  was  indecent." 

"  Was  it?  How  interesting.  I  didn't  observe 
it." 

"  Then  you  were  the  only  person  in  the  room 
who  didn't.  You  mean  you  liked  it,  I  suppose. 
Of  course,  you  can  get  plenty  of  that  sort  of  thing, 
if  you  like  it.  You're  beautiful,  and  you  can  have 


THE     BOND  417 

all  sorts  of  men  after  you  if  you  look  and  behave 
as  you  did  to-night." 

"  Be  quiet,  Basil,"  said  Teresa  dully. 

"Why  should  I  be  quiet?  Why  shouldn't  I 
admire  you,  too?  You  were  beautiful — you 
took  my  breath  away  when  you  came  into  the 
room  .  .  ." 

The  automobile  stopped.  They  were  at  home. 
Basil  helped  Teresa  out,  stopped  to  tip  the  chauf- 
feur, and  hurried  into  the  house.  He  came  into 
Teresa's  room,  where  she  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  staring  at  the  fire,  which  was  almost 
out. 

"  Why  don't  you  have  them  keep  your  room 
warmer?  "  he  asked  sharply.  "  You'll  freeze 
here — why  hasn't  somebody  stayed  up  to  look 
after  the  fire?  I'll  ring." 

"  No,  don't — they've  gone  to  bed.  It  doesn't 
matter." 

"  Well,  it  does." 

Basil  threw  off  his  coat  and  vigorously  made 
up  the  fire.  Teresa  emerged  from  her  furs  and 
sat  down  before  it. 

"  Keep  your  wraps  on  till  the  place  gets  warm, 
why  don't  you?  You've  got  nothing  on." 

"  I  don't  feel  it,"  she  said  indifferently. 

Basil  looked  at  her,  shivered  slightly — looked 
away — looked  at  her  again.  He  took  her  coat 
and  put  it  about  her. 

"  I  wish  you'd  take  some  care  of  yourself — you 


418  THE     BOND 

look    ill,   and   apparently   you're   trying   to   be 
ill." 

"  I  thought  you  said  I  looked  well,"  said  Teresa, 
still  staring  at  the  mounting  flames. 

"I  said  you  looked  beautiful    .     .     ." 

He  bent  down  and  touched  her  arm,  kissed  it, 
and  suddenly  clasped  her  in  a  fierce  embrace. 

Teresa  pushed  him  away  and  got  up. 

"  Don't  do  that,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 

She  stood  looking  at  him,  her  body  tense,  her 
eyes  shining  like  steel  under  half-lowered  lids. 

"  Don't  you — don't  you  care  for  me  any  more?  " 
he  stammered. 

"  I  hate  you !  " 

He  waited  a  moment,  then  turned  toward  the 
door. 

But  to  see  him  go,  like  that,  to  feel  that  silence 
shut  down  upon  her  again!  No — at  any  price, 
on  any  terms,  not  that!  She  called  him,  and  her 
voice  was  almost  a  shriek.  She  ran  to  him  and 
threw  herself  into  his  arms. 


VII 

rriWO  days  later  came  the  first  snow  storm  of 
A  the  winter.  The  house  was  cold  and  un- 
comfortable. Basil  was  alone  in  it  all  day,  for 
Teresa  had  gone,  early  in  the  morning,  to  look 
up  a  real  estate  agent.  Their  plan  of  buying  a 
house  had  lain  dormant  all  this  time,  but  now  the 
idea  had  taken  possession  of  her  mind,  and  with 
all  her  energy  she  was  bent  on  working  it  out. 
For  one  element  of  doubt,  which  had  lately  re- 
duced all  plans  to  chaos,  was  now  removed.  It 
was  certain,  at  least,  that  she  and  Basil  were  not 
to  separate.  They  would  go  on  together ;  on  what 
terms  Teresa  was  not  yet  absolutely  sure,  but, 
she  rather  thought,  on  her  terms. 

She  came  back  late  for  dinner,  tired,  chilled, 
unsuccessful  in  her  first  search,  but  cheerful,  to 
find  Basil  hanging  restlessly  about  the  house, 
not  having  been  able,  he  said,  to  work  that  day. 
Over  their  dinner  she  described  gaily  the  out- 
rageous defects  of  the  houses  she  had  seen,  and 
praised  their  present  domicile  by  comparison. 
Basil  was  gloomy,  drank  a  great  deal  of  whisky, 
listened  absently  to  what  she  was  saying,  and 
finally  said  that  he  thought  they  would  have  to 
stay  where  they  were  for  the  winter ;  they  couldn't 

419 


420  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

afford  anything  better.  Teresa  disagreed  in- 
stantly. She  had  her  plan.  "  We  are  going  into 
town  for  three  months,"  she  announced  firmly. 
"At  least,  as  soon  as  your  picture  is  finished. 
And  we  shall  do  that  every  year.  Neither  of  us 
can  live  absolutely  buried  as  we  are  here,  all  the 
year  round.  We're  too  young — or  not  young 
enough — for  that!  You  need  people  and  I  need 
them." 

"  I  don't  need  anything  but  work — and  peace," 
said  Basil  sombrely,  "and* we're  in  debt." 

"  No  matter.  You'll  sell  your  picture,  and  I 
shall  make  something.  And  we'll  make  up  next 
year.  We  shall  take  this  house  on  a  long  lease, 
or  buy  it  on  the  instalment  plan.  We  shall  live 
here  nine  months  of  the  year.  We  can  live  quietly 
and  cheaply,  and  you  can  work.  This  studio 
suits  you,  and  I  can  make  a  charming  garden. 
After  what  I've  seen  to-day,  I'm  sure  we  can't  do 
much  better.  By  degrees  we'll  make  the  house 
over  to  suit  us.  It  will  be  comfortable,  except 
in  the  dead  of  winter,  and  then  we  shall  take  a 
little  apartment  in  New  York.  There,  Basil, 
that's  my  idea — do  you  like  it?  " 

"  Well  enough.  But  I  don't  believe  we  can 
make  it  go." 

"  I  shall  make  it  go,"  said  Teresa.  "  To-morrow 
I  shall  look  for  a  place  in  town — something  over 
in  the  old  Chelsea  district — cheap  and  not  too 
nasty.  How  did  work  go  to-day?  " 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  421 

"  Not  so  well.  I'm  still  trying  to  pull  those 
two  figures  together.  It'll  come,  I  think.  But  I 
couldn't  work  to-day.  Everything  seems  so  grey 
— all  the  colour  gone  out  of  the  world.  I  feel  ter- 
ribly old." 

"  You've  been  working  hard  this  month." 

"  It  isn't  that.  But  I'm  sad.  I've  been  sadder 
to-day  than  ever  before  in  my  life.  I've  been  tak- 
ing account  of  stock." 

They  had  dined  at  a  small  table  before  the 
great  log-fire  in  the  studio.  Now  the  table  had 
been  pushed  away.  Teresa  was  leaning  back  in  a 
low  chair,  very  tired  and  drowsy  from  the  heat 
after  her  long  drive.  Basil  got  up  and  walked 
about  the  room,  stopping  before  his  picture,  of 
which  the  glowing  blue  and  yellow  colour  and 
the  sharp  lines  made  an  almost  violent  effect, 
even  in  the  subdued  light. 

"  Yes,  Basil?  " 

"  An  account  of  stock,"  he  repeated.  "  I've 
done  a  lot  of  thinking  to-day,  because  I  couldn't 
work.  And  I  couldn't  work  because  you  weren't 
in  the  house.  I  thought  about  you.  And  I  was 
sad  because  I  know  now  that  I  can  never  get  away 
from  you.  For  a  while  I  thought  I  might — I 
wanted  to.  I  wanted  to  have  some  new  experi- 
ence, new  life,  apart  from  you — something  that 
wouldn't  cost  me  so  dear.  I  want  it  still — but  I 
know  I  can't  get  it.  I  can't  get  away  from  you. 
You're  in  my  blood  .  .  ." 


THE     BOND 

He  turned  and  walked  abruptly  up  and  down. 
Teresa  was  silent,  spreading  her  long  fingers  to 
the  blaze  of  the  fire. 

"  Always  before,"  he  went  on,  "  I've  had  a  feel- 
ing that  there  were  any  amount  of  things  before 
me,  in  work,  in  life.  It's  still  so — more  than  ever 
so — in  my  work.  I'm  at  the  beginning  of  some- 
thing infernally  interesting.  If  you've  consid- 
ered that  thing  I'm  doing,  you  can  see  it.  .  .  . 
But  I  don't  care  about  work  alone,  if  I  can't  live 
too  .  .  .  if  I  can't  be  happy  or  at  peace.  .  ." 

Still  she  was  silent,  and  after  a  moment,  stand- 
ing before  the  picture  but  not  looking  at  it,  he 
said: 

"  Here  I  am  then — thirty-three  years  old,  with 
a  family,  not  enough  money  to  live  on  comfort- 
ably, with  an  idea  of  painting  which  it  will  take 
me  years  to  work  out,  and  which  probably  won't 
bring  in  any  money  for  some  time  to  come,  if  it 
ever  does.  I  believe  in  it.  I  could  work  with  more 
interest,  more  intensity  than  ever  before,  if  the 
other  conditions  of  my  life  were  right.  But  I'm 
not  sure  that  I  can  work  in  spite  of  them." 

"What  conditions?" 

"  Well,  money.  I  feel  I  ought  to  be  making 
some,  but  if  I  do  that,  I  can't  do  anything  else." 

"As  to  money,  give  my  plan  a  trial  for  a  year. 
Let  me  see  what  I  can  do.  I've  ideas  for  some 
work  too — some  models  for  little  things  in  silver 
that  I'm  sure  will  sell.  And  we  are  not  so  far 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  423 

behind  now.  I'm  sure  by  next  year  we  shall  have 
caught  up.  If  necessary  I'll  borrow  from  Aunt 
Sophy.  She'd  be  glad  to  lend  me  anything." 

"  Borrow?  I  can't  see  that  that  would  make 
us  better  off." 

"  Only  for  the  time.  We've  been  extravagant 
this  last  year,  and  then  my — my  illness  - 

Teresa's  head  drooped,  and  her  eyes  closed 
sadly.  Basil  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  then 
came  up  and  touched  her  hair. 

"  Poor  Teresa,"  he  said  softly. 

That  note  of  tenderness  had  been  missing  these 
many  weeks.  Teresa  sat  motionless;  two  tears 
rolled  from  under  her  closed  eyelids. 

"  Well  .  .  .  what  else  was  it,  besides 
money?  "  she  asked,  after  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  thinking  about  you — and 
how  we  are  bound  together." 

"  Yes." 

"And  yet  you  did  a  great  deal  to  break  that 
down.  You  made  me  want  to  break  it.  You've 
made  me  suffer — and  I  can't  love  you  as  I  did 
before." 

"Can't  you, " 

"  No,  you  don't  belong  to  me  as  you  did.  You 
were  such  a  beautiful  thing  to  me.  I  care  for 
you  more  in  one  way  than  I  did,  now  that  I  real- 
ise all  the  strength  of  your  hold  on  me.  I  couldn't 
work  to-day  because  you  weren't  in  the  house.  I 
want  you  with  me,  all  the  more  perhaps  because 


424 

you're  not  really  with  me.  But  it  isn't  as  it  was 
once.  The  peace  and  sweetness  of  it  is  gone  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  almost  dreamily,  as  though  the  whole 
thing  were  remote,  objective,  and  he  looked  at 
Teresa  as  though  she  were  miles  away. 

"  We  shall  get  it  back,"  said  Teresa. 

'•'  No     .     .     .     never     .     .     ." 

"  Then  we  shall  get  something  better.  Peace 
and  sweetness  aren't  all  ...  what  I  see," 
she  said,  still  with  her  eyes  closed  and  the  tears 
on  her  cheeks,  "  is  that  what  we  have  is  the  main 
thing,  the  best  thing.  I  feel  now  that  it  can't 
be  destroyed,  neither  by  what  I  do  nor  by  what 
you  do  ...  You  take  me  with  my  weak- 
nesses, as  I  take  you  with  yours.  I  don't  say 
it  will  be  all  peace  and  sweetness — we're  too  near 
one  another  for  that.  I  suppose  you  will  often 
hurt  or  irritate  me — perhaps  I  shall  hurt  or  irri- 
tate you.  I  don't  want  to  do  it — but  I  can't 
promise  that  I  shan't — I  promise,  though,  to  leave 
you  as  free  as  possible." 

"  But  I  can't  promise  to  leave  you  free,"  said 
Basil  darkly. 

"No  matter." 

"  No — you  mean  you'll  take  as  much  freedom 
as  you  want.  But  what  I  can't  endure  is  suspect- 
ing you." 

With  sudden  violence  he  took  up  a  letter  that 
had  been  lying  on  his  desk  and  threw  it  into  Te- 
resa's lap.  She  saw  Crayven's  writing  on  the  en- 


T  H  E     B  O  N  D  425 

velope.  Without  hesitation  she  took  it,  bent  for- 
ward and  dropped  the  unopened  letter  into  the 
hottest  part  of  the  fire. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?  Were  you  afraid  I 
should  want  to  read  it?  "  demanded  Basil. 

"  No.     I'm  tired  of  all  that.:' 

"  Of  what?     Not  of  his  letters?" 

"  Yes — everything  about  it.    It  doesn't  matter  " 

"  But  it  does     ...     !  " 

"  I  tell  you  it  doesn't !  What  you  do  matters 
more,  because  you  don't  love  me  as  much  as  I  do 
you." 

"  Love  me?    You're  in  love  with  Crayven !  " 

"  You've  let  me  nearly  die  this  last  month  of 
your  indifference  ..."  A  sob  broke  Teresa's 
voice.  "  I  tell  you  I  can't  live  in  that  way.  If 
you  didn't  love  me " 

"  Someone  else  would,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  if  you  didn't,  I  should  die.  I  have  been 
dying  this  last  month — I've  been  really  ill.  Look 
at  me — do  you  see  how  thin  I  am?  " 

She  sprang  up  and  went  close  to  Basil. 

"  I  see  that  you're  beautiful,"  he  said  softly. 
"Ah,  you  have  me!  .  .  ." 

"  Then  be  good  to  me !  We  shan't  live  for- 
ever ! " 

"  I  feel  that  I've  lived  a  hundred  years  or  so." 

She  answered  with  Lady  Macbeth's  appeal : 
" '  We  are  but  young ' !  " 

And  half-smiling,  passionately,  she  drew  him 


426  T  H  E     B  O  N  D 

clown,  in  her  arms,  into  the  great  chair,  and 
curled  against  him.  They  were  both  silent  for  a 
time,  cheek  to  cheek,  looking  into  the  fire  .  .  . 
Each  of  them  was  seeing,  perhaps,  their  past  to- 
gether, and  its  many  memories.  Each  of  them 
was  silent  before  the  future. 


THE  END 


000 


?18 


University  of  California  Library 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NOW- 


UCLA  UFtUlLL 


REC'D  US-' 


